
































A MAN WITHOUT 
PRINCIPLE 


The 





BY 

RETSEL TERREVE 

PRICE -$1,50 

m Q 


Hocking Publishing Co. 

BALTIMORE. MD. 


COPYRIGHTED 

UNITED STATES and ABROAD 
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LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

DEC 4 1S08 

Copyrigr.t Entry 
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V3S7 

COPY t3. ' 


In “A Man Without Principle?” we believe we are pre- 
senting to the public the masterpiece of Twentieth Century 
fiction. We shall not undertake to tell you why. No intel- 
ligent and analytical reader, having perused and weighed 
this work, will stand in need of such enlightenment. 


The Publishers. 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


PROLOGUE 

There was nothing unusual in his birth. A typical town of the 
western states ; a modest home on a respectable street ; a room, 
comfortable, plain and clean ; the usual complement of husband, 
doctor, nurse and mother; and then — an ugly, red-faced human bit; 
a strong-lunged, husky, kicking boy. But nothing in time, place nor 
event prophetic of the man. Infancy, childhood passed. No abnor- 
mal mental streaks; no precocious traits that mark a defect in the 
organism of the brain. Merely an ordinary lad ; healthy, good- 
natured, honest; working and playing with equal zest, and deriving 
from each the best it had to give. A normal type of boyhood, to 
whom the range of choice in life was wide ; from bridge to stokehole ; 
president to page. Of basis for prediction there was none. 

But mark you now, Destiny’s first distinguishable touch. The 
father died, unpreparedly so far as it referred to earthly things, and 
rent and clothing, fuel and food, these were still existent needs. The 
mother toiled bravely against the uneven odds. But woman’s toil in 
a crisis such as this becomes ofttimes impotent to either conquer 
want or turn despair to rout. Here, then, the need for manhood’s 
strength was evident. On son, not mother, inexorable Fate placed her 
decree. He heard the call and answered. Robbed of his natural 
birthright, youth — golden epoch in the memories of men, he bridged 
the gulf of years, stooped to the yoke, and on the shoulders of a child 
assumed the burdens of maturity. The teens were passed. The boy 
became a factor in the local world. Serious duties gave birth to 
sober thoughts, and ambition guided wisely both his studies and 
his work: 

So manhood, long since reached in deeds, now came in years. And 
then — the siren cry; then called the greater, mystic, outside world. 
With magic touch it played upon his heart’s responsive chords the 
most entrancing melodies of life. It sang of fortune, fame and joy. 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


It placed before his willing eyes the crystal ball of hope, within whose 
liquid depths the flights of fancy seemed as living deeds. In pageants 
rare the marshalled hosts of man’s desires swept in review. Each 
bowed obeisance as it passed, for all were servants of his will. Des- 
tiny, heedless of the means, had made illusion serve her ends. Beyond 
the rainbow of promise the land of disenchantment lay. Satan, in 
the pot of gold, had found the bribe of life. 

Years passed. Men’s recollections of the man, his family, and his 
youth grew faint. What trails he’d blazed, what contests won, what 
heights or depths his life had touched, none who knew him in his 
early days could tell. Now and then vague rumors came of strange 
import. Some told of prestige in commercial fields, some of failures, 
some of want, and some — low spoken — gave deep hints of darker 
things. Finally, indifference followed doubt, and then — forgetfulness. 

Cynicism had scored again. Man’s consistency to man was still the 
Ignis Fatuus of life. 


PART ONE 


CHAPTER I. 

The afternoon of Sunday, December the twenty-fourth, eighteen 
hundred and ninety-nine, Will, with its attendant happenings, ever 
stand pre-eminent in the history of the Men’s Christian League of 
New York City, as an epoch-making date. 

This organization, originally formed by a few of the more aggres- 
sive spirits of the Methodist religion, still bore, at the time of which 
we write, the earmarks of that faith. An institution entirely disasso- 
ciated from the church, it had, nevertheless, hitherto worked in 
harmony with it. Indeed, judged by its works, the founders’ idea 
may well have been to consider first the welfare of the Wesleyan 
youth; to direct and help him in his da!ily life; and then, this done, 
to offer other men a guiding and assisting hand; to urge acceptance 
of the faith (always providing the object of their solicitude possessed a 
reputation undefiled by taint of criminality), and to exercise unceasing 
vigilance in preventing the commission of a wrong, to the entire 
exclusion of efforts looking toward the reformation of those, who 
chancing to err, were unfortunate enough to have been found out. 
Under a policy comparatively narrow in its scope its field of effort 
marked a compromise between the work within and that lying just 
without the established province of the church. The atmosphere of 
orthodoxy was everywhere in evidence. Compared with organiza- 
tions recognizing neither race nor color, history nor creed in the 
saving of a soul, its self-restricted field seemed small. Its purpose, 
however, was a definite one; its efforts, if conservative, were con- 
ducted along harmonious and consistent lines. If its growth in 
membership and influence was apparently slow, it was nevertheless 
of a substantial kind; a condition, perhaps, after all offering the 
safest test of merit. Of adequate means, it had erected a home 
embodying features designed to meet the religious and educational, 

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as well as the social requirements of its members. In brief, despite 
its self-imposed and manifest limitations in a field of labor practically 
horizonless, it had proved no mean instrument for the cause of right, 
occupying an assured position among that class of institutions whose 
beneficent influence is reflected in a gradually clearing state of public 
conscience. 

But recently the rigid tenets of Wesleyanism were, under pressure 
of the younger blood, beginning slowly to surrender to the broader 
spirit of the age. The last election of League officers had eliminated 
largely for the first time, a bigotic element which had hitherto domi- 
nated the management, rendering possible the substitution of a more 
liberal and aggressive policy by those to whom the reins of control 
had passed. As yet, however, no radical departure from established 
lines had signalized this transfer of power. No formal declaration by 
the new administration of principles to be adopted in conducting the 
League’s affairs had given opening for discussion or dissent. That a 
policy more in keeping with the necessities of the times was being 
carefully formulated was a matter of universal knowledge. When, or 
in what manner, the .change would manifest itself still remained a 
matter of anxiety and doubt. On the particular date of which we 
write, however, an occurrence incident to the regular Sunday service 
held in the society’s auditorium, effectually disposed of any lingering 
hopes entertained by the ultra-conservatives that the organization’s 
fundamental policy (which, as before hinted, made an unimpeachable 
moral record a condition essential to membership) would remain 
practically unaltered. At all times the League’s Sabbath afternoon 
meetings — open to public and members alike — were of a character 
sufficiently attractive to insure a comfortable filling of the hall. Today 
a program of unusual merit had been arranged. The seating capacity 
of the auditorium proved inadequate, nor was the standing room 
less overtaxed. The Monday following would usher in the Christ- 
mas holidays, and music, sermon, prayers — all were appropriate 
for the occasion. In each the theme was Christian love and charity. 
The audience, in receptive mood, gave inspiration to the chief speaker 
of the day. He retold the story of the love divine; of the duty man 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


owes to fellow man. He forced conviction by his logic, and with an 
eloquence born of sincere belief drove the message home. When he 
ceased speaking, a momentary silence ensued, that greatest tribute to 
the orator’s gifts and power. Then the applause, prolonged and 
warm — inevitable sequel to the calm. Following this came another 
prayer, and song. Then the secretary of the League arose, lifted 
his hand in appeal for silence, and said : 

“Men, you need no introduction to the next speaker, the Chairman 
of our Executive Committee, Mr. Hope, who has a word to say.” 

Even as he spoke another figure had arisen and, to the music of 
renewed applause, advanced toward the platform’s front. Secretary Pat- 
terson was right. To introduce Stanley Hope to that assemblage 
would have been the veriest kind of rot. Was there a man present 
who failed to recognize in him a personal, loyal friend? Was not he, 
the hope and leader of the new regime, the bulliest fellow that ever 
drew a breath ; a brother to them all ; one whose word with them 
was law at any time, or any place, for any thing? What, introduce 
this man! One might, indeed, as well send coals to Newcastle, or 
to Cardiff, in the south of Wales. Jolly funny action that would be, 
in truth. The applause burst forth again. Patterson retreated to 
his seat. He had said enough in telling them the League’s official 
head desired to speak. 

Stanley Hope, man of wealth, important factor in the business 
world, was yet a living argument in favor of a consistent Christian 
life. He belonged to the type of manhood that believes in sunshine; 
in physical as well as moral health and strength; in cleanliness of 
body as an aid to purity of mind. He believed in sports and songs; in 
hustle and in toil ; in the aggressive art of doing good ; in permanent 
friendships ; in loyalty to duty wherever found ; in the truth at all 
times and under all conditions; in talking fearlessly and to the point 
when necessity required ; in gentle, kindly words and acts with which 
to help the other man to rise; and in living, day in, day out, along 
consistent, unwavering lines, the life he felt was in harmony with 
the teachings of his Lord. Of slender but athletic build; a head as 
perfect in contour as the life its owner led ; fair haired, blue eyed, 

m 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


high browed, chin strong, and firm lips shielded by a cropped mus- 
tache; a face that told of power, decision and confidence, as surely 
as it did of kindliness, integrity and love. Such was the mould in 
which the man was cast. Such was Stanley Hope, who having 
commanded quiet with a deprecating gesture, now began to speak. 

“Fellows, less than a year ago there was a young chap in this city, 
broke. He was an ambitious, educated, good kind of fellow, but 
in several ways a fool. He came here with a fortune and a bride; 
then bucked Wall Street. You men can guess his finish. He did 
then, what you or I probably would have done — kept his troubles 
from his family. His wife, in her loyalty, was brave enough to do 
the same. Finally they landed in the dead of winter in some tene- 
ment over on the East Side. Probably had a bed, table and a couple of 
chairs. They didn’t have any food or fire. The chap hustled for 
work, but had no trade. Office positions require references, and that 
meant a give-away to his friends. Then the blizzard came and the 
wife fell sick. Well, a questionable opportunity for raising money 
came and he seized it. There was fire and food and medicine. 
Whether you or I would have done the same isn’t here nor there. 
Nor is it in our province here, to pass judgment on him. Today he is 
in one of our state reformatories awaiting release on parole, while his 
wife is living among her friends. His record is the cleanest in the 
history of the institution; his stay the shortest. A condition neces- 
sary to his release is that he first secure employment. This has been 
promised him, and I expect to shake his hand within the next ten 
days. Now, men, you’ve been listening to and applauding, a sermon 
that told you of the joys of giving. I’m going to ask you to begin 
putting this to the test. This chap has got to tackle the world again 
possessed of nothing but the suit he wears. I propose that this 
League help him to enter the fray equipped half way right. I want 
to see him a member here. I want to see this association of ours 
make the success of that man and the happiness of his wife a shining 
testimonial not only to our belief in the teachings of Christ, but to 
the effectiveness with which we put that belief into practice. Now, 

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while we sing number twenty-one, I want to see everybody get busy 
and dig. Ushers, start back at the doors and don’t miss anybody. 
If they haven’t brought money enough along, take their notes.” 

The scene following Hope’s remarkable appeal was one unprece- 
dented in the history of the League. For an instant not a man in 
the audience moved. The ushers stood as if paralyzed. The organist 
might, so far as appearances were concerned, have been thrown 
temporarily into a hypnotic trance. The Chairman, walking toward 
his seat, half turned as if surprised at the singular effect his words 
had wrought. Suddenly a long, low whistle came from somewhere 
in the gallery. Then, somebody turning, knocked an umbrella to 
the floor ; the organist with a start recovered control of his benumbed 
faculties ; the instrument pealed forth the well-known hymn ; the 
ushers seized the collection baskets ; and then a shout, a hurrah, like 
unto nothing the staid old hall had ever heard before. A few of 
the members struggled hard to sing; others applauded, stamped 
with their feet, pounded with canes and umbrellas, waved handkerchiefs, 
shook hands, and in general gave evidence of wild, disordered minds. 
Disregarding for a time the united appeals of Hope and Patterson 
for order; forgetful of the day’s sanctity and the behavior due it; 
innocent of any intention looking to its desecration, the assemblage 
had taken advantage of the opening given to indulge in an outburst 
of feelings long pent up. If the display of enthusiasm appeared 
inopportune, the provocative cause was fully understood by Hope. 
For his had been an adroit and a diplomatic move. His short, crisp 
speech had done more than tell the story of a man in need. It signal- 
ized a revolution in the conduct of the League. From a regime 
encrusted with the timeworn policies of orthodox design the society 
had passed to the control of a new and progressive administerial 
power, where pessimism, prejudice and precedent (the triple “p’s” 
significant of decay) would have small chance to thrive. This, virtu- 
ally, was the announcement conveyed in the Chairman’s words. It 
meant adherence to a broader view of life ; it heralded the adoption 
as a working principle by the League of that theory which recognizes 
the brotherhood of all men ; it eliminated at a stroke the hitherto 

[ 9 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


unquestioned influence of the church, as such, opening the doors to 
all well-intentioned applicants of whatever faith, or of no faith at all. 
It disclosed a firm determination to change at once and for all time 
a course that held the opportunities of today in bondage to dead 
precepts of the past. In the thirty years of the League’s existence 
no member had dared suggest the attempted reformation of a man on 
whom the State had placed its ban, much less request the transfer of 
his name direct from prison records to the members’ ledger of that 
exclusive organization. It was a direct challenge; a supreme test of 
strength, and offered at the psychological time. Was ever change of 
policy so radical announced in words so few and apparently so 
irrelevant? 

The commotion gradually subsided. The last refrain of the thrice- 
repeated hymn died away; and then, mingled with the buzz of 
low-toned voices, one heard the clink of dropping coins and the rustle 
of crisp, green-hued paper bills. This, too, was more than mere 
response to Charity’s request. It signified approval of the course 
implied in their Chairman’s words. It was an endorsement of what 
was, to all intents and purposes, a declaration against further sub- 
serviency to church supremacy, unreasoning bigotry and obsolete 
ideas of the duty man owes to man. They would travel henceforth 
with the spirit of the times. The restraining hand of custom had 
been forced back. The shackles were broken. For better or for worse 
the new was in the ascendant. 

Hope, as the secretary rose to announce the business and meetings 
for the week, touched him on the shoulder and indicated with a nod 
that he was to defer, for the time being, the customary reading of 
the notices. Perhaps more than any other person present the Chair- 
man recognized in this the crucial moment. Despite all evidences of 
approval, he knew that a large faction still remained, adhering through 
conviction to opinions now discarded by a majority of the members. 
These men, despite, rather than because of, whose ideas the League 
had gained its prestige, were still entitled to consideration and a 
hearing. But, if they were to criticize his course, he wanted their 
position stated now. Otherwise he viould consider their silence as a 

[ 10 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


mute sanction to the step he had taken. He glanced here and there 
about the hall as if encouraging some expression of their views. 
One — two — five minutes passed. The stillness became oppressive. 
Hope motioned to the secretary. Then, before the latter had com- 
pleted rearranging the papers in his hands, from well back in the 
hall a voice was heard — a voice, not loud, but pitched in a pene- 
trating key : 

“I should like to ask, Mr. Hope, if a more definite explanation regard- 
ing this man and his offense cannot be given us. This action is 
unusual, unprecedented, I may say, sir, for our League to take — quite 
outside our established line of work. As a member of this organization 
since its birth, sir, I do not recall a similar attempt to meddle, if I may 
use the term, in a field of endeavor quite satisfactorily covered by the 
ordinary rescue missions. I assume, sir,” he continued after a pause, 
“you will give us the name of the beneficiary for whom this liberal 
contribution has been taken. I would suggest, sir, further, your keeping 
a record of his progress. It should furnish a most interesting — I may 
add, instructive — report, especially, sir, to those of our members who 
are jealous of the use to which their gift is placed.” 

The speaker, toward whom all eyes were turned, sat down. He was 
a man of perhaps sixty-five years of age, tall and thin, and with shoul- 
ders stooped almost to the point of deformity. His scraggy hair and 
whiskers (the latter in evidence on chin alone) were more nearly white 
than gray. His nose was long and narrow ; his eyes blue ; his drawn 
face yellow as an old-time parchment. As the last words passed with 
peculiar emphasis from his lips, the semblance of a smile, cold and 
cynical, hovered for the merest fraction of time upon his countenance. 
To the majority of those in the audience he was known as Mr. Samuel 
Withers, a wealthy drug manufacturer, one of the organizers of the 
League, and for years the most rabid opponent of that element which 
advocated the wider opening of the membership door. 

In the reply of Stanley Hope, who was now standing and who had 
listened without visible annoyance to the aged gentleman, there was 
nothing of ambiguity or evasion. 

[ii] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Most decidedly not!” he said. “It is not our intention to place this 
man under any surveillance whatever. It is enough to know that for 
six months, at least, the Prison Association must do that. It is our 
purpose to permit neither his name nor his description to pass beyond 
the few who know it now. Our aim is to start him right. If he is to 
move among us it shall be on the same basis as that accorded any other 
new member. Otherwise,” he concluded with a smile, “we would be 
handicapping instead of helping him.” 

Mr. Withers, about to address the Chairman again, gave way to one 
who had arisen directly at his left, and whose attitude he knew to be 
in sympathy with his own. He was a brother member, a physician of 
the old school, nearing the mark of three score and ten, but healthy, 
well-groomed and intellectual. 

“I am inclined to agree with Mr. Withers,” he remarked, having 
received a recognitory nod from Hope, “that if we are to establish a 
precedent of this character, logic would dictate our following the act to 
a point where its success or failure can be definitely ascertained. The 
proper use of funds contributed under circumstances such as we find 
existing today, makes it a solemn ” 

“This is not a question of previous usage,” interrupted the Chairman, 
with a show of impatience. “It’s a matter of obedience to the teachings 
of Christ, and that means the extending of a helping hand whenever 
and wherever needed, without endeavoring to analyze the unfortunate’s 
past before we extend him aid, or placing unnecessary restrictions on 
him and his future actions before we recognize him as our brother. 
The proper use of funds consists in utilizing them for the precise purpose 
for which they were contributed, which in this case means making such 
provision as will lessen to some extent the difficulties of this man’s 
fight for rehabilitation, a fight that at its best will be hard enough. 
“Men,” — turning from the individual and addressing the entire audi- 
ence — “before Mr. Patterson reads the announcements for the coming 
week, I want to thank you on behalf of this man, to whom, by your 
liberal response to my appeal, you have extended the glad hand of good 
fellowship. Remember, all of you, whether it’s friendship or whether 
it’s charity, the only kind that counts is the kind that helps and then 
forgets the deed.” r , 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER II. 

On Wednesday evening, ten days subsequent to the Sunday services 
which Stanley Hope, with mind alive to impending unpleasantness, had 
abruptly terminated, the League’s reception room was filled with mem- 
bers awaiting call to the weekly Bible class meeting — a meeting second 
only in importance and attendance to that of Sabbath afternoon, and 
like it, usually presided over either by the chairman or secretary of the 
organization. A few minutes prior to the hour for assembling in the 
classroom, Hope, surrounded by a half dozen young fellows and vigor-, 
ously defending the merits of a new apparatus installed in the gymnasium 
the day before, was interrupted by one of the League clerks who had 
hurriedly approached and touched him respectfully on the arm. 

‘‘Pardon me, Mr. Hope ! A gentleman asked me to hand you this." 
card; says no hurry; is in the reading room,” and the busy employee, 
scurrying away, left his superior gazing with interest at a plain white 
card, on which was written in firm, bold letters, the name, “Anson Van 
Anholt.” 

“Here, Floyd!” he called after the receding figure of the clerk, “wait 
a minute !” Then observing the other had failed to hear him, he 
turned to one of the members of the group. “Patterson, will you open 
the meeting tonight? It’s most important that I see this party. If I’m 
not back for the windup, have Cunningham read the special program 
for Sunday. He’s got it ready.” With which request, and indifferent 
to the reply, he started across the room, threaded his way through the 
still increasing crowd, then into and along the hall until he stood finally 
just outside the archway leading to the reading-room. A swift glance 
over the room and the familiar faces of members too deeply engrossed, 
in their favorite paper or magazine to note his approach, and then his 
vision caught and rested on a figure seated close to and facing the great 
fireplace. 

“And this,” he murmured, “is the man! May God help me in being 
of service to him now!” 

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His clear, quick eyes were taking an inventory of the subject of his 
thoughts; an appraisement which time alone could verify or prove to be 
erroneous. The figure, evidently tall and well proportioned, was clothed 
in a suit of some plain and dark material. Over the left knee an over- 
coat was thrown; on this, held lightly by a gloved hand, rested the 
ever-conventional bowler hat. The body was leaning forward. In the 
flare from the burning logs his face, in profile, standing out against the 
dim background and reflecting thoughts chasing one another across a 
mind just now intensely serious, was readable and full of interest to 
Hope. It could not be called a handsome face. The nose was too large, 
the chin too weak, even if only a trifle so, to mark the perfect silhouette. 
The head, well shaped, was crowned by a luxuriant growth of black 
and wavy hair, which on closer inspection would have been found to be 
slightly streaked with gray. The forehead was of medium height; the 
mouth, as if to counteract the weakness of the chin, was firm and strong. 
The eyes, dark brown, mirrored their owner’s varying moods; now 
flashing in the recollection of some past battle, won or lost; now soft 
and tender as gentle memories played upon the brain. They were eyes 
that spoke a language of their own — eyes such as men are taught to 
took for only where a clean, unsullied conscience reigns. Altogether an 
attractive face, clean shaven, intelligent, and possessed of many signs of 
force; one that told its story of success and failure, of hope and despair, 
as unerringly as it did of a temperament that could accept no result as 
final unless it bore the label of victory. 

The man stirred. Hope, slipping through the door, advanced with 
outstretched hand. The other, as if by intuition, looked around and 
observing the newcomer moving toward him, stood erect. As palm met 
palm somebody opened the distant classroom door. Before a word 
was spoken both men smiled. The class was singing “Rescue the 
Perishing.” 

“Anholt, old chap, how are you? I’m glad to see you.” 

“Mr. Hope?” The voice, rich and melodious, was one of inquiry. 
“Believe me then,” as the other nodded affirmatively, “the feeling is 
reciprocated. And — I’m doing splendidly, thanks to you.” 

“Glad to hear it. And the work?” 

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“Heavy enough to make one tired; interesting enough to cause one 
thought. Not a bad combination, though, with which to fight one’s self- 
accusatory memories.” 

The library was becoming deserted for the classroom. Hope, who 
had pulled up a chair, proceeded to make himself comfortable in it; 
then waiting until Anholt had reseated himself, said : 

“My boy, the recollection of an error, really regretted, makes a good 
lighthouse along the shore of life. The bigger it is, the stronger the 
light; the more of them, the better one should know the dangerous 
spots. The main thing is to keep in the open, remember the signals, 
and steer clear of the rocks. If you strike one, set up another warning 
and try again.” 

“Unless, perchance,” remarked the other, “the ship that carries you 
is lost.” 

“A true sailor, my dear Anholt, is happy only when at sea. If he^ 
shipwrecked he’ll get afloat somehow, if he’s got to ride the rough side 
of a log. The trouble is, few experiences of one man shine as a warning 
to the other fellow. But the most of us like to stand as advisers, 
usually on matters of which we know nothing, forgetting that a pilot, 
endeavoring to steer a stranger’s craft without a personal knowledge 
of the coast, is pretty well in line for an accident himself.” 

“An insinuation,” suggested Anholt, “which the ministry would prob- 
ably resent.” 

“Not at all! The modern divine takes one point here and one point 
there on opposite sides of life’s sea. This is the beginning, that the 
ending. He adheres to the Gospel of Christ as his guide; his course 
is charted by its rules ; he veers neither to the right nor to the left, but 
keeps moving straight ahead in one well-defined and unwavering line. 
You’re safe always in following him, regardless of his particular church.” 

“Which,” said Anholt, “is the very thing the ordinary man don’t do. 
We’ve adopted a code of ethics as elastic as our desires — a jumble of 
religion and ” 

“I know,” interrupted Hope, “I see it every day. In an ethical sense — 
if I can use the term — we’ve set a certain arbitrary limit, to which* 

[ 15 ] 


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presumably, all men may safely venture. Keep just inside the line and 
you’re honest, respectable; an inch beyond and you’re done for. And 
the consequence is that every man having some particularly brilliant 
finale in view, instead of sailing straight ahead, across the calm waters 
of Christ’s religion, edges along the borders of this ethical sea; the test 
of success too often being his ability to shave the danger points without 
running against the rocks, or in plainer words, the law. His prospective 
actions are always carefully studied out. His safety too often depends 
on a critical analysis of the intended move. Not, mind you, that he 
hesitates at a little stretching of the truth, but it’s a question of passing 
the perilous point. Anholt, believe me, any end that can be accomplished 
only by skirting the shores of decency and social morality as we know 
them today, isn’t worthy of achievement; and, whenever you’ve got to 
examine each contemplated act and so adjust it that it comes merely 
within the requirements of the law, then you’re wrong. The genuine, 
straight-from-the-shoulder Christian never is obliged to use the micro- 
scope that way. He knows but one code — a moral one — and follows 
that instinctively. He may strike an unknown reef, now and then, but 
he marks it and turns his vessel’s prow towards the safer waters again. 
My boy, it’s impossible to qualify the absolute. It’s impossible to add 
a comparative or superlative to the good old name of common honesty.” 

When Hope ceased speaking, Anholt continued staring at the flickering 
flames. For full five minutes neither spoke. Then when the conver- 
sation was resumed it changed to other topics. The League’s chairman 
learned much of Anholt’s life, his family, his aims and struggles. He, 
in return, related something of the history of the League and of his 
own connection with it. Later, they made a round of the building, 
visiting the gymnasium, dormitory, auditorium, dining-room and class- 
rooms, all possessing some point or points of interest. In the enthu- 
siasm of his host Anholt seemed to breathe new life. To him, as to all 
•'others with whom he came in contact, Hope proved to be an inspiration. 
In his companionship men left despondency and vain regrets behind, and 
walked along the avenue of hopefulness and peace. At last the opening 
•of doors and the hum of voices reached their ears. The Bible class was 

[ 16 ] 


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out. The two men arose and started, arm in arm, toward the hall. 
As they stepped into it Anholt, pausing, laid his hand on the shoulder of 
his new-found friend and said: 

“Mr. Hope, in coming here tonight I expected to meet a generous, 
God-fearing, charitable man. But, let me say it, I expected him to 
catechize, pray over, and preach to me. To such a man, duty and obli- 
gation would have compelled me to make good. Instead, I met a man , 
one who knows and understands. Your hand, extended in the spirit of 
good-fellowship; your acceptance of me on trust, as a co-worker; your 
magnanimity in leaving unsaid many possibly pertinent things, has 
made me a recruit in the cause ; a trifle raw, perhaps, and needing no 
small amount of discipline, but no deserter, you may depend on that.” 

“Bully for you!” was the hearty response. “You’re on the roll call, 
marked for promotion. Now to go out and get acquainted with the 
regulars.” 

To Anholt the vision of weeks past was now an existent fact. He 
was again among men; his mental (he hesitated to call them his social) 
equals. Warm hand clasps; cheery welcomes from members whose 
clean-cut features and healthy skins bore testimony to the kind of lives 
they led. Over in one corner a piano was being played by some redoubt- 
able volunteer. Above him, standing on a chair, was Hope, leading the 
crowd around him in a lusty chorus. No snobbery, no restraint, nothing 
but an atmosphere of geniality acting as a tonic to the mind and inducing 
pure, exalted thoughts. To this newest member an impulse came to 
mingle with the joyous throng and lend strong voice to the well-remem- 
bered songs; to join this band of royal fellows and assert his equality 
by doing as they did. Reason urged him on; told him it was not 
hypocrisy; assured him that none save three or four knew aught of 
what his past had been ; advised him to bury his sorrow and to permit 
the best that was in him to shine forth there. Then something else 
spoke — something that you or I, perhaps, will never understand ; some- 
thing that comes alone to those who have been as Anholt was ; some- 
thing that calls to mind at times inopportune an awful, hideous truth. 
This voice was heard and heeded by the man. A start, a shake of the 

[ 17 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


head, the muttered words, “Too soon!” and the impulse to act had 
passed. Memory had been implacable. As he stood thus, someone 
touched him on the arm. He glanced up to find an elderly gentleman 
addressing him in a piping, high-pitched voice: 

“Mr. Van Anholt, I believe, sir?” 

“Anholt, sir. Van is my middle — a family name. And yours?” 

“Withers — Samuel Withers, sir. I am proud to have been one of the 
founders of this League.” 

“And right good cause for self-congratulations,” replied Anholt. “I 
can personally vouch for the helpful influence of your organization.” 

“Ah! indeed, sir. We have endeavored to work along legitimate 
lines. We have held it our duty to only help those who first prove 
themselves deserving. After they do that we ” 

“How,” asked Anholt, “do you determine their qualifications ? I 
should assume the granting of opportunity to prove deserving worth 
by extending aid at once, where needed, would be more in keeping with 
the true Christian spirit. Help him first, then permit his actions to 
show the kind of man he is. That appeals to me as being charity worth 
one’s while.” 

“I term that, sir, a game of chance. The kind that takes a drunkard, 
or a tramp, or a convict , and grants him pecuniary aid on the gamble 
that he may turn out later to be all right. That, sir, is the type of 
charity that gets bitten nine times out of ten. I don’t believe in it, sir. 
Let these characters make men of themselves first ” 

“By which time,” again interrupted the other, “they are beyond need 
of your assistance.” 

“Not so, sir! Men always require aid. Take our young men here. 
We’re helping them day by day to better lives. Yet not one was lifted 
from the gutter. No man, sir, with a frayed record has ever joined us. 
If by any chance one ever does, and he is detected, we’ll expel him 
instantly, if I can have my say.” 

Anholt, with mind intensely alert, correctly interpreted the threat 
conveyed in the older man’s words. He answered in a voice perfectly 
even, his countenance covered meanwhile with a frank, engaging smile: 

[ 18 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“My dear Mr. Withers, your idea is most original and doubtless to 
some attractive. You do not pose as an uplifter of men — I mean as 
it lifts them from sin to righteous lives. That work you delegate to 
individuals and organizations cast in coarser moulds. But, taking those 
who meet your rigid moral requirements, your purpose is to keep them 
right, in line with the old maxim about the ounce of prevention. As a 
society endeavoring to rescue men once fallen, you would risk con- 
tamination by moral lepers. As a League whose duties , are confined 
chiefly to keeping the presumably crystalline conscience of your members, 
and acting as overlord to characters whose shadows have failed of 
detection, your position is unique. True, Christ preached a different 
doctrine, but that was before the intellectual dawn. With ” 

“What mean you, sir?” exclaimed Mr. Withers, excitedly. 

“With members,” continued Anholt, “whose reputations are gilt- 
edged and who keep them so, your position would appear to be impreg- 
nable. But suppose one or more of them should, by reason of some 
unforseen accident, be found out. ‘Aye, there’s the rub.’ The moral 
lapse of a single member — a discovered one, I mean — and you’re dis- 
qualified. But should ninety-nine per cent, of the Band of Hope’s 
reclaimed drop back to sin, the stock of that energetic little army remains 
at par, and the praise of men and angels testify to their success. Why? 
Because the hundredth man was saved. Frankly, my dear Mr. Withers, 
none but a knave or a fool could endorse your policy. I shall be sur- 
prised and disappointed if you prove to be anything but the exception 
in this League.” 

With a half snarl the old man turned. “There has been one excep- 
tion, sir, to the policy of this organization, which I propose shall prove 
the value of the rule.” Then observing Stanley Hope appearing, he 
edged away and became lost in the crowd. 

“Funeral oration or an everyday sermon?” asked Hope, nodding 
after the disappearing man. 

“Merely prophesy,” replied Anholt, adding, “One of your leaders, I 
understand.” 

[ 19 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Pessimism, my boy, can’t lead here any more, and Withers can find 
a cloud in the clearest sky that ever sheltered this good old earth. Not 
a bad lot, though, with all his 'sirs/ if you tread softly enough.” 

“I guess I’ve touched the corn alright,” thought the other as they 
started toward the cloak room, preparatory to leaving for the night. 

* * * * 

The hall bedroom still retains the same characteristics that have made 
it an institution in our city life for the last third of a century or more. 
It answers a demand that nothing else can fill. Its situation in the 
house, its furnishings, its very atmosphere, remains the same as in days 
of yore. It is a companion of necessity; the one essential and objective 
point in the mind of every urbanist when fortune frowns. The butt of 
humor, sarcasm and ridicule, it has survived their united attacks. Under 
its solitary light inspirations have been born helping to revolutionize the 
world. Its single bed has given birth to innumerable bright-hued 
dreams — dreams turned to actual, tangible realities by energy and toil. 
As a potent factor in the rise of man it has played no insignificant part. 
It retains an undisputed corner in the memories of many of our country’s 
greatest men. Write a history of it and you will have furnished the 
world with a comprehensive treatise on success. In the experiences of 
the characters enriching its pages you will have provided humanity with 
hope and inspiration for all time. Notable among those sections of New 
York City where this type of bedroom still predominates is that district 
lying north of Twenty-third street and immediately adjacent to Lexing- 
ton avenue. The avenue itself has its full quota of these very necessary 
and ever-rentable rooms. It was toward this neighborhood that Anholt, 
after leaving Stanley Hope, had directed his steps. Noting neither the 
starry brightness of the sky nor the biting cold causing the snow to 
crunch beneath his feet, he hastened forward, his mind a prey to confus- 
ing thoughts. Stirred by conflicting emotions his appreciation of Hope’s 
whole-hearted assistance surrendered to grave forebodings as the men- 
acing words of Samuel Withers recurred time and again to him. 

“That man Withers,” he muttered as he strode along, “was talking 
for a purpose tonight. He was actuated not so much by pessimism as 
by some inexplicable animosity aimed at me. Strange, too, for he wasn’t 

[ 20 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


mentioned by Mr. Hope as one of the four who understood my position. 
If he’s not altogether satisfied he’s certainly suspicious enough of me, 
and that’s anything but a comforting thought. Well, anyhow,” giving 
his head a toss, “time, if nothing else, will tell !” 

On across Twenty-seventh street ; north a short distance on Lexington ; 
up a high front stoop; a door unlocked; then another climb of two 
longer flights of steps and the man was home. Lighting the only gas 
jet in the room, he hung up overcoat and hat, slowly surveyed the cheer- 
less walls, made himself as nearly comfortable as was possible considering 
the dilapidated condition of the solitary chair, and undertook to think. 

“Anholt, old man” (so his mind ran), “you’re in for a battle royal, 
that’s plain. It isn’t old man Withers, and it isn’t society that you’ve 
got to look to for the hardest tussle. You’ve got to fight yourself, and 
on the lines Mr. Hope has laid down. Honesty without qualification. 
A rattling good battle cry, that! One that ought to win in spite of 
Hell !” 

He glanced toward the wall; at a picture fastened there by cord and 
pin; the photograph of a woman’s face — a face telling of infinite love, 
of purity, of beauty and of strength. His gaze rested, lingered fondly 
upon this likeness of a much-beloved wife. His eyes, flashing a moment 
since with the fire of enthusiasm and anticipated fight, grew soft and 
gentle as the fall of night. Ineffable tenderness was reflected in his 
face. Reaching forward he took the picture in his hands, pressed it 
reverently to his lips; then, holding it at arm’s length, spoke as if, 
instead of to the image, it was to his wife in flesh. 

“My beloved Dorothy, a free man is speaking to you now. Once, 
each night, in all the dark and dreary past I’ve held you, dearest, as 
I’m doing now. It was the sacred hour with me; the one God-given 
rest from thoughts of things both sad and gross. Then, as now, I 
recalled the sweet-faced, blushing bride, who placed her hand in mine 
with measureless trust and confidence, and gave into my keeping all 
that she possessed ; her heart and love and life. Oh ! sweetheart. Oh ! 
noble, generous, forgiving little girl. Still trusting, still believing, still 
loving! You are my heart’s one great idol. Even above the Divine 
Creator, I fear I worship you at times. If I could insure your earthly 

[ 21 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


happiness; if I could purchase your eternal joy by forfeiting the salva- 
tion of my soul, the price would still, indeed, be small. And yet you 
make it so easy for me to bring you peace; you ask so little, darling. 
Not promises. Not the affiliation with this or that particular church. 
Just the doing unto others as I would have them do to me. Only the 
doing of the little things, as Christ would have them done. My love, 
you are wiser than the prophets. You are stronger in your w’omanly 
purity and trust than the loudest trumpeters heralding the gospel of 
our Lord. Precious, generous wife of mine, by your own life you 
have raised — can keep me from the depths. Help me, beloved ; stay by 
me while I pray.” 

The light was lowered. Anholt in his weakness was in communion 
with* his God. 


122 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER III. 

In the real estate offices of Carter & Dixon, who had given him 
employment, Anholt had been installed originally as a stenographer. 
The business of the firm, confined exclusively to city realty, was ex- 
tensive, requiring a large clerical force to handle its details, and the 
ability of the new typist, too obvious to escape the notice of the 
shrewd and discerning Dixon, had resulted in the creation of an office 
hitherto unknown in the history of the firm. As office manager, in the 
two months elapsing since his service began, he had instituted a cam- 
paign of systematization in the routine work facilitating the keeping 
of records and accounts. He had reduced the number of clerks without 
impairing the effectiveness of the force. He had caused the books to 
be balanced daily ; insisted on the employees quitting work, with clean 
sheets, as promptly as they were required to begin it; abolished night 
tasks, saving thereby the allowances for supper money and remunera- 
tion for extra hours of indifferent service, and demonstrated the possi- 
bility of securing a monthly trial balance without the necessity of an 
all-night struggle heretofore considered inevitable. He had taught 
the men to make each minute count, and had emphasized the truth 
that work done properly step by step, required no doing over at the 
end. He had justified the expectations of his employers and the con- 
fidence of Stanley Hope. 

Such was his record of the daytime. In what manner he utilized 
the hours belonging to himself, he alone could tell. To be sure, he 
was to be found on three evenings of each week, with but few excep- 
tions, secluded in his room ; studying, reading, writing. The early 
hours of the fourth and fifth nights he spent, usually, at the League, 
to all appearances interested in the work, lending a hand where oppor- 
tunity presented, extending his acquaintanceship among the members, 
and, in general, equipping himself for the satisfactory performance of 
whatever duties might be later delegated to him. But of the hours 
thenceforward until after midnight and for all the hours until past that 

[ 23 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


time on the two remaining nights, no explanation as to the way in which 
he passed them was available. 

With this brief resume of the man’s progress we are carried forward 
some seven weeks to midnight on the first of March. It was a night 
typical of this unreasoning month. A drizzly rain, chilling and pene- 
trating, left the streets deserted by all save those whom necessity drove 
abroad. Grand street, the Lower East Side’s Broadway, to which 
our attention is directed now, displayed little more of life than did 
those canyons further south where the face of man is seldom seen from 
sunset until dawn. 

A closely muffled figure was moving eastward, along the south side 
of this particular thoroughfare. He was walking slowly, hesitatingly, 
in sharp contrast to the rapid strides with which the few who ven- 
tured out passed by. On the north side of the street, perhaps ten feet 
further back another figure, silent as a spectre, advanced, receded or 
stood motionless, in harmony with the other’s uncertain, wavering 
course. Suddenly the one in front stopped, turned, and as if impelled 
by a decision hastily made, started rapidly to retrace his steps. His 
shadow paused for an instant, evidently surprised at the unexpected move, 
then darted forward, crossed the street and shouted in no uncertain tones : 

“Here, you crook ! I want you.” 

The one thus commanded drew himself up with a start, looked 
quickly around, then moved hurriedly on again. 

The pursuer neared him. “You hear me talkin’, Anholt! I said 
stop ! That goes, see !” 

“Yes, I’m Anholt,” answered the other, halting for the second 
time. “What of it? You say you want me, why?” 

“Well, you know me, don’t you?” The words spoken in a voice 
unpleasantly rough and coarse, induced Anholt to examine him closely. 
A burly form hidden in the warm depths of a heavy ulster coat; a sen- 
sual face, embellished by a thick and black moustache. The counte- 
nance, perhaps one day called handsome, now bore witness to an 
ignorant, self-centered mind behind. Yes, Anholt knew and in a 
measure feared the man. He answered him now, in a low, calm voice 

[ 24 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Yes, Essingham, I know you. What do you want?” 

“You’re workin’ at Carter & Dixon’s, ain’t you? One of the main 
squeezes, eh? What’re you gettin’ a week?” 

Anholt hesitated. Self control and prudence were hardly dominant 
traits of his mental makeup. His lips, framing an angry retort, were 
checked in time by reason. He knew, too well by far, what peculiar 
powers are vested in the plain clothes members of the Metropolitan 
Detective Bureau. Strange acts, unauthorized by any legal or depart- 
mental written code find sanction at Headquarters, when committed 
under cover of the shield. Good men, there are in plenty there, who 
wear this emblem of the law; men of integrity, culture and ability. 
But good or bad, for all alike, the one unwritten motto stands : “Our 
men can do no wrong.” Anholt, once the victim of this unacknowl- 
edged, but existent rule, had grasped in time the fjill measure of his 
danger. Essingham was detailed from the Central Office. Therefore, 
he must shape his replies accordingly. 

“Fifteen dollars.” 

“What’re you givin’ me; a jolly or the goods?” 

“Straight goods, Essingham.” 

“Well, it’s five plunks too much You know me and I want mine, 
see? I ain’t askin’ what your game is around here tonight, so long’s 
you come down with the stuff. Here’s the card what tells you where 
to send the little V. I want it there prompt on pay day. Are you 
next?” 

The rain started afresh. The two stepped into a deserted hallway 
leading to the tenement above. 

“Essingham, will you listen to me for a minute?” Anholt paused as 
much in effort to control himself, as in waiting for reply. No signal 
or word came from the detective. He continued then, nothwithstand- 
ing the lack of encouragement. “Less than a year and a-half ago I was 
charged by you with the commission of a minor offense. The fact that 
I was guilty doesn’t matter now. You knew your case against me was 
weak and that in all probability I could have successfully defended 
myself. You traced my record down and ascertained that when little 

[ 25 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


more than a boy I had been punished for a crime. That was all you 
found against me, but it was enough. In the eyes of society it would 
make me guilty of anything you saw fit to charge me with. I told you 
rather than have my friends become conversant with my plight 
through a contest in the courts, I would plead guilty. You promised to 
use such influence as you possessed to secure me clemency. Instead 
of that you had every unsolved case of a similar nature on the Head- 
quarter’s books, charged up against me. I was the goat, and having 
plead guilty to the one was made to wash the slate of a dozen others. 
You and the Department received the credit. Don’t — .” 

“Aw, stow that bunc, will you !” interrupted the officer. “Do I get 
that money or not?” 

“Essingham, with a man trying to make good on fifteen dollars a 
week, it’s pretty hard to — */’ 

The other snorted. “It is to laugh! You to make good! Why you 
stiff, I’ve spotted you for the last hour. Ever since you left the 
Bowery and Housten. I’ve been next to every move you’ve made. If 
you hadn’t changed your mind so quick you’d been took in on some- 
thin’ more’n suspicion.” 

Anholt started. “You don’t mean — .” 

“Yes, I mean just that!” catching his victim by the coat lapel. 
“Wise gazoo, you are, nit! Bellyachin’ fer a lousy fiver with ten still 
left to play your game. I’d oughter made it seven. That’s what it’ll 
cost you now or you’re cornin’ along. Talk up !” He pulled sugges- 
tively on Anholt’s coat. The latter was becoming imbued with the 
suspicion that Essingham was more intent on frightening him into 
meeting his demands than he was desirous of making an arrest on some 
altogether unsupportable charge. Yet he knew that tribute levied 
under conditions such as these had long been recognized as a perquisite 
of the officer who could wield the largest club over the selected victim’s 
head. In view of this he deemed it wise to make some concession for 
the time, at least; considering this the lesser of the two evils he was 
called upon to face. 


[ 26 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“To give you seven, or even five dollars,” he explained, “out of the 
fifteen is impossible. I am, however, prepared to pay you something 
as a matter of policy, but if you will consider that aside from my 
actual and necessary living expenses, I am obliged to forward at least 
five dollars weekly to Mrs. Anholt — .” 

Essingham, with a loud guffaw that startled some lone passer by 
and caused him to look around, backed against the wall. 

“Five plunks for the madam! Well for a confidin’ guy that thinks 
a pretty little — , 

Like a flash all thought of compromise, all regard for reason was 
dismissed by the man at whose wife the insult was aimed. With hands 
clenched until the nails cut in the flesh, and eyes gleaming with the 
light of an uncontrollable passion, his voice rang out like pistol shots. 

“Stop, you blackguard! Stop! You talk to me of crooks! You — 
you damnable, blackmailing cur! You leech! You feeder at prostitu- 
tion’s trough ! you sleek scoundrel, flourishing because shorn virtue 
needs must hand you its polluted gold ; exacter of blood money from 
every unfortunate that walks the streets ! By God ! I’ll teach you a 

lesson that’ll .” But the officer, springing forward pulled him 

suddenly, violently toward the door. , 

“That’ll be about all for a while,” he exclaimed, cooly enough. 
“You’re going up to the Central Office. Come on !” With the words he 
gave another quick and vicious jerk. 

It was a moment ripe for tragedy ; a crisis fraught with possibilities 
of evil deeds. What the outcome might have been, had they remained 
uninterrupted, the one, calloused by his life and vocation, never paused 
to think. The other, dared not. Before the latter could reply or act, 
from somewhere in the shadow came a voice, deep and resonant. 

“I would suggest, friend Essingham, a slight modification of your 
plans. It would be a wise action, very.” 

Essingham started, loosened his grip on his intended prisoner’s arm, 
and gazed at a towering, bulky form that had arisen in the shadows 
apparently from nowhere. A figure the dim light showed to be attired 
in the dress of the high church clergy and who, singularly enough, 

[ 27 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


considering the night, wore neither overcoat nor gloves. Anholt 
with a feeling of intense relief stood motionless, awaiting develop- 
ments. The detective, at last, had recognized the intruder. 

“Storey, by God !” he cried. “What the ’ells the reason I can’t pinch 
a crook anymore without you buttin’ in? This man’s wanted at 
Headquarters and he’s goin’ there.” 

In genial tones the rotund personage spoke again. “My dear Essing- 
ham, you have, inadvertently, I am sure, reversed the position of 
knave and honest man. You’re a poor diagnostician. Now I should 
say the rascal had threatened to arrest the man. Man, Essingham! 
can you understand what that word means?” Now there was a change 
in tone and manner, that brooked neither refusal nor reply. “I over- 
heard the demand you made on this man, and I heard, also, his reply to 
you. All he said of you is true. You know it, and you know I know it. 
I want you to leave him alone hereafter, understand? You broke 
faith with me and you’ve lied to me. I don’t want any words further 
with you now, and I don’t want any apology for the ones you’ve used 
to me. Another case like this and you’ll go broke ; not back to patrol 
duty. Now go!” 

“I tell you,” protested the officer, “this fellow ” 

“Go!” thundered the giant. Essingham started, hesitated for an 
instant, and then, smothering a string of oaths, stepped out into the 
dismal street. The two men followed. 

“Our friend, Mr. Anholt,” remarked he whom the detective had 
addressed as Storey, “appears disposed to serve us both an evil turn. 
I believe tonight, though, I would be justified in ascribing my timely 
happening on the scene to the direct intervention of a Divine Provi- 
dence.” 

“It was Providential, certainly,” replied Anholt, adding, “As Essing- 
ham repeated your name, I need scarcely say that the Reverend 
Melville Storey requires no introduction to me. In view of the conver- 
sation which you overheard, I should assume that any attempts to tell 
you who I am, would be equally superfluous. It would resolve itself, 
probably into an attempt at self justification.” 

[ 28 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Which, my dear sir, is quite unnecessary. In my eyes you were 
justified before I ever heard your voice. Fully, I should say, ten days 
ago. Ah !” as they turned the corner. “Here we are — permit me. 
What? Oh, Bob! I left him sound asleep. It would be unwise to 
disturb him. I’ll explain later.” 

A handsome motor car, of limousine type, hugged the sidewalk. 
The reverend gentleman, who had already reached it, opened the door 
and motioned his companion to enter. A single word of instruction 
to the half chilled driver ; the door closed, and the car sped toward the 
north along the almost forsaken Bowery. The minister, after envelop- 
ing himself in a monster overcoat, which for some inexplicable reason 
he had discarded before leaving the car, comfortably ensconced himself 
in the upholstery at Anholt’s left, and broke the silence. 

“Your consuming curiosity, my friend, shall soon be satisfied. Pray 
accept and join me first in this really fine cigar. One of the few 
luxuries vouchsafed to wearers of the cloth by an indulgent society.” 

“Together,” supplemented Anholt, “with automobiles of foreign 
make, since we haven’t learned to appreciate them here as yet, and high 
salaried drivers, probably from Paris .” 

“My dear Anholt, anything that contributes to the cause of right- 
eousness is a necessity, always ; never a luxury. I impress an automo- 
bile into service, become an agent of Divine mercy to three unfortu- 
nates instead of to the one I might possibly reach through our anti- 
quated transportation system, and there you are. The cost of the car 
is nothing; the good it does, everything. Now then,” he continued, 
“out with your questions ! and — call me Storey when you talk.” The 
big form settled back again ; the cigar was lighted and Anholt had the 
opportunity he had so impatiently craved. 

“Mind reader as well as philanthropist,” he said. “Clearly your 
reputation for versatility is justified. Now that you’ve very properly 
reproved me for a somewhat impertinent remark, I should like to ask 
the circumstances under which, ten days ago, I became absolved of 
serious derelictions in your mind. Such a voluntary expression, on 
your part, of faith in me, would, at any time be as unexpected as it 

[ 29 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


would be agreeable. But, unless I am incorrect, our acquaintanceship 
and your personal knowledge of me have covered a total period of 
something less than fifteen minutes. Is this faculty for determining 
and apparently irrevocably so, in your mind, the moral status of a 
man ten days before you ever saw or heard of him another manifesta- 
tion of your accredited genius, or is there a simple, disillusionizing 
explanation after all? Anyway, let’s have it.” 

“My friend,” answered Storey, after a series of long puffs on his 
cigar, “I’ve simply been poaching on your preserves, that’s all.” More 
puffs followed. 

“Your explanation,” observed Anholt, “is succinct, but a trifle hazy. 
Suppose you try again.” 

“I will,” and the minister leaned forward again. “As you are aware 
the most marvelous and deceptive performances of the masters of 
legerdemain become ridiculously simple when explained. Ditto here. 
You’ve been trying your hand out for the past six weeks in a personally 
conducted, party of one, campaign of good work along somewhat origi- 
nal lines. As you’ve been doing this in a locality in which I am person- 
ally interested (so much so that one of your charges turned informer 
on you), I’ve been endeavoring to catch you in the act. That explains 
my fortunate advent at the crucial moment tonight. The lad told me 
you would be there and I waited until after midnight ” 

“Yes,” offered Anholt. “I was delayed; met a pretty hard case on 
the way down from the League ; sans money, sans food, sans work and 
just off the Island. Wet and shivering like ” 

“I know,” said the other. “You bought him a drink first, then some- 
thing to eat, and finally landed him in a bed ; all out of your munificent 
salary. Probably handed him a shilling or two for breakfast. If it 
wasn’t for the drink first and the bread and cheese you’ll eat tomorrow 
as a compromise with your pocket-book you would deserve the Mas- 
ter’s blessing.” 

“The drink,” replied Anholt, “he needed more than I did the Martini 
I took with him. And, since you’ve kindly filled in the sequence of events 
to your own satisfaction, I’ll merely add, that I became confused in 

[ 30 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


the darkness as to Bob’s exact location, and had just corrected myself 
when our mutual friend stepped up.” 

“And when,” added Storey, “I gave you up and started home.” 

Both remained silent for a time. Then Anholt, rubbing the moisture 
from the door glass, noticed a Twenty-third street cross-town car speeding 
by. Brought to a realization of the near termination of his ride and for 
the first time recalling the fact that Storey had made no inquiry as to his 
place of abode, he was about to thank him for his unexpected intervention 
and request permission to alight, intending to cover the short remaining 
distance to his room on foot. He was not without hope that the minister 
would indicate an inclination to renew the acquaintance formed under con- 
ditions so unusual. Before he could speak, his companion, as if inter- 
preting his thoughts, turned his eyes upon him. 

“Mr. Anholt,” he said, “I want you to put up with me for the bal- 
ance of the night. You will be conferring a real favor on me and I 
think I may safely promise you an interesting hour before you retire. 
Yes? Good,” and he sank back among the cushions. Acceptance on 
Anholt’s part of an invitation framed in such words and under the 
circumstances was inevitable, not alone because of his growing desire 
to further relations evidently agreeable to his prospective host, but 
because of his wish to correct, if opportunity presented, whatever 
erroneous impressions the other may have formed regarding him. 

During the balance of the ride he surrendered himself to his thoughts 
— thoughts in which the man at his side occupied a central and con- 
trolling place. His knowledge of the minister, derived both from verbal 
and newspaper accounts, served to increase rather than to satisfy his 
curiosity. That he exerted a powerful influence in certain quarters was 
unquestionable. Anholt, himself, but a short time since had received 
confirmatory evidence of this. Whence this influence was derived was 
an enigma as yet unsolved by the public, although more than one 
enterprising metropolitan daily had hazarded a shrewd, if rather re- 
markable guess. He was a free lance in the theological field. Of 
American parentage and a graduate of Oxford, he had early been or- 
dained as a clergyman in the Church of England. Big of heart as he 

[ 31 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


was of body, his sympathies rapidly became enlisted in the cause of 
the submerged third. Becoming less the preacher and more the pracii- 
cal worker, the limitations imposed upon him by a rigid adherence to 
Church precedent became irksome, and he surrendered his charge to 
one less imaginative and more amenable to discipline. He then under- 
took to work along his own, if somewhat unorthodox lines. Soho and 
Whitechapel alike, soon learned to know and respect this genial, good- 
natured and kindly person, still clothed in the conventional vestments 
of the church ; who talked Scripture little ; who adopted the Golden 
Rule as a concentration of the best to be found in all religions, and put 
it in practice in his own original way. Deprecating a charity that 
operates at long range he mixed with the people he aimed to serve ; 
ate with them, and when circumstances demanded slept among them. 
As a teller of anecdotes he would bring the sunshine of laughter to 
many a discouraged soul. In his sympathetic and confidence-inspiring 
presence, the grave, to the mourners gathered round, seemed less an 
awful, grewsome thing. Eliminating all “better than thou” manner- 
isms in his labor of love, he met all men as equals, assisting by word, 
money or influence, as conditions called. With his growing familiarity 
and understanding of the under world, his interpretation of man’s 
religious obligations became more liberal. Already persona non grata 
to many of the high church dignitaries, he became likewise a thorn 
in the side of more than one well intentioned organization whose pro- 
ficiency in prayer and speech was equalled only by its disinclination to 
believe the gratification of the physical man an essential preliminary 
to his spiritual rehabilitation. Suddenly, three years before the time 
of which we write, he left England and returned to the land and city of 
his birth ; resuming there the work so successfully carried on in Lon- 
don. Various reasons were assigned by as many different persons for 
the unexpected action. One argued that it was the direct result of his 
conflict with the church; another hinted at an unsatisfactory termina- 
tion of a love affair; still another, hopeful that his absence would be 
but a temporary one, suggested the possibility of a relative’s death 
requiring his presence in America to assist in settling up the estate. 

[ 32 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


Whatever the cause, the regret expressed over his departure gave 
ample proof, both of the good he had wrought and the affection in which 
he was held. To New York City the gain was no less than was Lon- 
don’s loss. The minister’s keen observation and knowledge of men 
enabled him to readily adjust himself to the changed surroundings. 
Humanity, much as it may differ in prosperity, resolves itself in 
poverty, back into its orignal self. To be natural is to be poor. With 
each successive smile of fortune another layer of veneer, appropriate 
to the requirements of the particular social set entered by reason of 
the added wealth, is hastily smeared on. Storey, having (so far as his 
labors were concerned) cast his lot among those whom penury com- 
pelled to appear precisely what they were, soon became recognized as 
their ablest and most persistent champion. A despiser of hypocrisy, 
he was the last to hide any possible vices of his own. Writing on the 
subject nearest his heart, his opinions were accepted by the city press 
as unprejudiced and worthy of consideration and comment. Where- 
ever he spoke (and his services were in general demand), he secured 
the respect and attention of his hearers, even though they could not 
always concur in his deductions based on the experience he had had. 
His sincerity was unquestioned. Thus it was that this physical giant; 
this aggressive, open-hearted, tender messager of a compassionate 
Christ ; mixing indiscriminately with people of all kinds and all classes, 
had reached, despite his disregard for conventionality and criticism, a 
place unique on the stage of metropolitan life. 

Such was the Rev. Melville E. Storey, at whose rather pretentious 
residence in West Fifty-seventh street the car now stopped. The 
minister, with a “Here we are,” opened the door. Both men stepped 
out and with a “Good night” to the driver, started arm in arm toward 
the stoop. A moment later and the door, opened by an impassive 
faced butler, admitted them to the cheery warmth and brightness of 
the reception hall. 

“Ah! my dear Anholt,” exclaimed the host, rubbing his hands with 
vigor, “even a bachelor’s home is worth the keeping on such a night 
as this.” Then turning to the butler, who had disposed of coats and 
hats; “Parker, has Mr. Bishop called?” 

[ 33 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Yes, sir; he’s in the library awaiting you now, sir.” 

“Good! Now Mr. Anholt, for one of the most comfortable chairs 
and one of the best fellows this side of the river Styx. Yes,” observ- 
ing and answering his guest’s expressive look ; “I expected him. It’s 
all in the plot. Parker,” as they began ascending the stairs, “some 
brandy and soda at once — and some sandwiches.” 

“Very well, sir.” 

The minister again addressed Anholt. ‘“Having acknowledged to 
a Martini, I may I trust, safely offer you the antidote?” 

“If,” came the answer, “it’s efficacy is guaranteed by my host’s par- 
taking as well, certainly.” 

They were entering the library ; a room of goodly size ; well lighted, 
well stocked and well furnished. The dominant idea in its fitting up 
had undoubtedly been the combination of comfort with convenience. 
To this was added a simple, quiet elegance, speaking as clearly as 
words of the man who occupied it. In truth, one knowing Storey, 
might easily have guessed the room. Back from the fireplace, and 
directly under a massive chandelier shedding its soft rays over the 
crowded shelves of books, sat a slender, black-haired, black-eyed and 
smoothly shaven man; a figure immaculately attired in the conven- 
tional evening dress. Through reading, the book had fallen to the 
floor. One leg was hanging over the chair’s arm ; his hands were 
clasped ; his entire attitude one of repose. Indeed, but for the eyes 
that turned indifferently toward the new comers, one might have as- 
sumed him to be asleep. He was aware of their presence, unquestion- 
ably, yet neither by word nor gesture did he indicate interest in, much 
less acquaintance with, either of the men who had approached and now 
stood before him. Nor, so far as Anholt could observe, was his atti- 
tude either surprising or annoying to Storey. In fact, the latter looked 
down upon the apathetic individual with a smile half quizzical, half 
indulgent ; then, turning to his companion, said : 

“Friend Anholt, before you sits one of the jolliest, and permit me to 
add, one of the laziest dogs that ever went unmuzzled. You can trust 
him unreservedly and borrow from him without compunction. He is 

[ 34 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


faithful, affectionate and gentle. He sleeps with one eye open and 
had taken stock of you before you were half across the room. When 
you want him, call him Bishop, although some wiseacre, in token of 
his disposition and tendency to always see the meat and never the 
bone it covers, has prefixed this with ‘Sunrise.’ Having now stroked 
his hair in the right direction, perhaps our friend will bark.” 

In answer, he to whom Storey had given the name of Bishop arose ; 
the slenderness and delicacy of his figure contrasting strangely with 
the athletic form of Anholt and the massive size of the minister. The 
face, regular as a woman’s ; the hands, white and telling of the mani- 
cure ; the grace with which he moved, all suggested the effeminate ; a 
feeling strengthened by the sweet and languid voice with which the 
man (certainly not over thirty years of age), ignoring the unconven- 
tional wording of the introduction, now spoke. 

“Mr. Anholt, this is a pleasure.” His hand pressed the other’s in a 
grip surprisingly firm and strong. As if in soliloquy he continued : 
“Preacher, knave, and now we have the honest man! An ideal combi- 
nation, I should say, for a congenial social group. My dear Storey,” 
addressing the latter, “you were born thirty centuries too late. As 
chief of Sodom and Gomorrah’s secret service bureau you would have 
found those much discussed and needed incorruptible citizens.” 

“Bishop,” replied their host, pulling up chairs for Anholt and him- 
self, “even in New York, such a find is not impossible. We’re all 
only relatively honest anyhow ; as our acts compare with those of 
other men, so do we find our reputations as honorable men defined. 
Honesty in its literal and strictest sense can be accredited to nobody.” 

“Ergo,” said Bishop, “all men are honest, except the poor devil at 
the tail end of the procession who has nobody lower than he is to 
make comparison with. What gammon !” and he resumed his former 
position in the chair. 

“That’s ground for argument,” returned Storey. “What do you 
say, friend?” looking at Anholt. 

“Like Mr. Bishop,” came the answer; “I take issue with you. You 
would measure a man’s integrity solely by the manner in which the 

[ 35 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


public looks upon his acts. You would make character and reputation 
synonymous terms. Pardon me, but I am obliged by reason of my 
own experience with you, to brand your words as inconsistent with 
your acts.” 

“You contend then,” inquired the minister, “that reputation is no 
index to character?” 

Anholt hesitated before replying. “Except in youth, no,” he said 
finally. “To me a regrettable condition of maturity as compared with 
one’s boyhood days, is that the building of an enviable reputation is 
no criterion of the man’s true character. In early youth the one re- 
flects, to an almost certain degree, the other. The necessity as well 
as the ability to build on a false moral foundation is latent; the dis- 
tance from the cradle too short for time to cast the mantle of forget- 
fulness over acts that make or mar for one’s success.” 

Storey smiled. “I grant you,” he responded, “a gilt edged reputa- 
tion may cover countless moral lapses. But a spotless character minus 
a clean reputation is an anomaly inconceivable.” 

“And,” ventured Bishop, “your spotless character in man where 
honesty in its literal sense doesn’t exist is another anomaly. This 
differentiation between the this and the thus is beyond me. Anholt, I 
yield the floor. My head splits.” 

“What I’m driving at,” said Anholt, willing to continue the subject; 
“is that character, the essential product of man’s innate conception of 
what is right or wrong, is not affected by his action. Reputation is. 
My character is my own ; it is me. My reputation belongs to the 
public, subject always for its preservation to the demands and whims 
of a capricious society. With a motive satisfactory to my conscience 
I may commit an act unpardonable in the sight of the community at 
large. My reputation is gone. My character — providing in my own 
mind the action was justified — lives.” 

“Yet reputations,” insisted Storey, “appear easily obtained and as 
easily preserved.” 

“On the contrary,” replied Anholt, “the sequence of honorable 
actions must remain unbroken if the reputation lives. In its building 

[ 36 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


man becomes the acrobat crossing life’s span on a narrow treacherous 
way. Like Blondin, o’er Niagara, each step must be precise and 
right ; a single slip and you’ve undone the work of years. Patience, 
labor, trials and record go for naught ; the end is absolute and sure.” 

From the calm, half indifferent manner with which the man had first 
spoken he was passing to one of deep earnestness. The eyes, the face, 
the vibrations of the voice told of one speaking from the heart; one 
who had known, and seen, and felt. Storey was experiencing a feeling 
of intense satisfaction. He had struck the proper key. He had found 
the other out. Even as he thought the voice of his guest changed 
again. In it lay something of defiance; something of sarcasm. Now 
the tone was one reminiscent of a bitter cup; of a rebellion against 
conditions that had made his life at times a hell. “Singular, isn’t it,” 
he continued, “that one discovered wrong annuls the social rights con- 
sistent Christian living may have earned? Strange, truly, to appraise 
man’s moral status by one slight error made, and that preceded by a 
life of honesty, and kindly deeds, and all that gave to others happiness! 
Funny, that a professedly Christian world should take one fault or 
failure and against a past consecrated to righteousness, make it tip 
the scales ! Marvelous doctrine, that preaches the great, forgiving 
Christ ; in prayer admits the proneness of the human mind to err, and 
then insults the memory of the Savior — of him who, as his dying act 
could grant with faltering voice his pardon to a thief, and in promising 
him a seat at his side, make him his social equal in Paradise ! And thus 
we see, this self-righteous, hypocritical thing we dignify as Christian 
Society, placing the ban of moral leprosy on all who may perchance, 
for an instant slip and fall. And the Devil looks and laughs !” 

For a moment after Anholt ceased speaking, the three remained 
silent. Then Bishop, with his finger flecking an imaginary speck from 
his sleeve, observed audibly. “The plot thickens. Knave I am, but 
as between the honest man and preacher, my vision fails.” He leaned 
forward unexpectedly, extended his hand to his fellow guest and 
uttered the single word, “Shake.” The grasp ; the meeting of the eyes, 

[ 37 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


as if each read the other’s soul, was over. A compact inviolable and 

permanent as life was sealed. Each knew that the other understood. 

Storey, apparently oblivious to the incident, now remarked: “Mr. 
Anholt, I understand your attitude and appreciate your argument. I 
will not deny that it contains a large measure of truth. The situation 
is one that presents a grave question to earnest and intelligent church 
and religious workers. At times I almost despair of a satisfactory 
solution. And permit me to say here, that my strongest hope for 
bringing about a partial remedy lies in my association with yourself 
and our friend here .” 

“As a horrible example under the scalpel of the moral vivisec- 
tionist — hardly, my dear philanthropist!” interrupted Bishop, whose 
words were followed 1 ry the chimes of an antique clock calling atten- 
tion to the early morning hour. 

“If Bishop can restrain his tendency to break in on what I am 
about to say,” said Storey, “for not more than five minutes, “I’ll 
explain the purpose of our meeting here tonight. Then we can retire 
to rest. Ah! the sandwiches! Gentlemen, jump in — and Parker, 
brandy and soda for Mr. Anholt. For myself, just a drop — Mr. 
Bishop does not indulge. Thanks! Now,” turning to Anholt, “while 
our friend’s mouth is stuffed, I’ll proceed. Our friend, Bishop, here — 
S. R. Bishop, to be more exact — is known to you and to the public 
through innumerable newspaper reports, editorials and drawings as a 
notorious gambler, a destroyer of young manhood, and as a coarse, 
sensual brute. I know better, and so will you in time.” 

“Thanks!” sputtered the subject of this singular statement, as par- 
ticles of the bread fell over the spotless bosom. 

“I’ve read of Mr. Bishop, of course,” offered Anholt, “but in spite 
of the similarity of names .” 

“They are the same,” said the minister. “Mr. Bishop will, doubt- 
less in time submit you his reason for continuing the maintenance of 
his establishment. . To me it is not an altogether satisfactory one, 
and I trust in time to convert him to my way of thinking. I know, 
however, that he has never utilized a dollar of his income from this 

[ 38 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


source for his personal benefit. I know, further, that it is expended — 
so far as is possible — in charitable work and along wise and practical 
lines. Our friend is convinced that in his case the means are justified 
by the end he has in view. I believe he is mistaken, but at the same 
time I am foolish enough to think that when a good dollar goes astray 
it is a religious duty to put it back to the best possible use at the 
earliest possible time. Hence, I have never hesitated to accept, disburse 
•and account for such funds as have been turned over to me from this 
questionable source. Mr. Bishop and I were at Oxford together. After 
his return to the States he wrote me repeatedly, telling me of the tre- 
mendous field for efforts of the kind I had engaged in. I, as persis- 
tently refused to come, until I learned, through the merest chance 
of his present vocation. To save him was an argument sufficiently 
strong to induce my coming at once. Since my arrival he has taught 
me many things, and they have been things making for the uplifting 
of mankind. If I have not, as yet, induced him to alter his mind on 
the subject of his calling, neither have I been able to find another 
man, who, everything considered, accomplishes more in the way of a 
philanthropy that really helps men to rise than does our friend. How- 
ever, you will be able shortly to pass opinion for yourself.” 

A soft “Amen!” from the little figure was all. 

“You, Mr. Anholt, were first called to my attention some four 
years ago through a series of pamphlets written and published by your- 
self, in advocation of a new theory of governnment which you had very 
ingeniously worked out. These pamphlets, with the exception of the 
last one issued, came to my notice probably a year after their publica- 
tion. I endeavored to get in touch with you by correspondence, be- 
cause I was impressed with the manner in which you handled questions 
similar to the one we discussed tonight, and because without the last 
copy I was unable to follow your arguments to the end. Ten days 
ago I learned that a lad, Robert McNamara by name, while under the 
influence of drink, had been brutally assaulted by a policeman, and 
that, while the latter stepped around the corner to summon the patrol 
the young fellow was mysteriously whisked away. From one who is 

[ 39 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


under obligations to me I learned who rented and paid for a room 
for the injured lad; who brought him in; who secured the attending 
physician, and who provided the medicine and food. From McNamara 
himself, I learned more. To encourage him you related certain inci- 
dents of your own life. Under patient and persistent questioning I 
brought these out. Your name, Anholt, is not a common one and I had 
not forgotten that of the author of the pamphlets. I looked up your 
history. I considered your ability and behind the record I recognized 
the man. You, Anholt, are one I am proud to meet and know. It was 
by prearrangement I waited for you on Grand street tonight and that 
Mr. Bishop met us here. The encounter with Essingham was, of 
course, unexpected.” 

“Eh! Essingham?” and Bishop was alert. 

“I will explain later,” said Storey; then again to Anholt: “Mr. 
Bishop and I have discussed you, your life and motives. I will not 
say that you have convinced us, but you have impressed us through 
your printed arguments with the possible adaptability of your ideas to 
the work we have in hand. It is not improbable that in discussions 
covering the various phases of your attractive theory you may alto- 
gether convert us. Looking toward that end we desire you to join 
hands with us, in so far as your time will permit, that we may concen- 
trate our efforts as a body on the work which we each appear striving 
to do now as individuals. Just another word and I am through. Our 
lives have run in strange channels and with you two men over many 
tempestuous seas. However much experience may have taught us it 
has not lessened our radicalism. Nor, even as radicals, do our ideas 
of doing things comport entirely one with another. If we can’t fully 
agree among ourselves, to expect a critical and suspicious world to 
accept our views would be folly. By exercising the proper restraint 
on one another; by concerted action along lines our experience proves 
most likely to result in success, and by endeavoring to rectify our own 
faults before presuming to correct those of the country at large, I 
hope — I can almost believe that a successful test might ultimately be 
made of the principles you have expounded. Dont,” as Anholt started 

[ 40 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


to speak — “Don’t assume that I am above the need of your help be- 
cause the papers use my stuff to fill their columns, or because for the 
moment my voice may tickle the ears of an audience in harmony with 
my views. No young man on a mission as great as ours can be at all 
times right. Believe me, my friend, despite the good I try to do, I 
am daily becoming less sure and confident of my ground. Mr. Anholt, 
Mr. Bishop and myself hope to receive your approval of our plan. We 
would much prefer, though, if you gave no reply tonight. Think it 
over. This is merely a get together, get acquainted meeting, you 
understand. Parker,” as the butler appeared, in answer to a bell, 
“some Triple Sec and glasses. Then you may go for tonight.” 

Ten minutes later the lips of Storey and Anholt touched the clear, 
transparent fluid — queen of all the liqueurs — in a good night toast to 
sleep. 

Two delicate hands, trained to marvelous things, shot forth. Two 
glasses still unemptied, were parted from the encircling fingers. A 
toss — liqueur, and glasses, smashed to bits, lay in the dying embers of 
the grate. Then the languid voice : 

“Reformation, like charity, gentlemen, should begin at home! The 
time for reform is now !” 




[ 41 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER IV. 

At the hands of New York City’s newspaperdom the name and busi- 
ness of “Sunrise” Bishop received no inconsiderable share of attention. 
That his place was the most elaborate ; his games the squarest, and his 
clientele the most exclusive in all the great metropolis, was generally 
conceded. That an influence as powerful as it was mysterious effec- 
tually protected him from police interference in the face of concerted 
and vigorous attacks by the press, was beyond question. The location 
— even the exterior appearance of the house was known to every 
reader of the news. Yet no popular outcry; no police reforms; no 
aggressive campaign against crime and vice by an irritated public 
had affected for a day the business of this man. He was an unknown 
quantity to the community in many ways. Some considered him a 
myth. No two descriptions of him tallied. To the better element he 
was a threatening, fear inspiring interrogation point. Doubtless there 
were a few, possessing entree to this house of chance, who knew or 
guessed the truth, but to all others he remained nothing but a name. 
For a time current rumors had declared him to be the wayward son of 
an eminent local divine, who, some months since had unaccountably 
disappeared from his customary haunts and from the ken of his many 
friends. These reports, lacking either confirmation or denial, were, 
however, generally discredited and soon ceased to circulate at all. 
Night after night, for weeks and months, now merging into years, the 
routine of the famous resort remained unchanged. Every detail of 
management indicated a supreme, intelligent directing power to which 
Walker, the keen eyed and courteous manager made report. In 
nothing but the game, was anything left to chance. Every contin- 
gency had been provided for; every item of service perfected; every 
action from the diplomatic move in furtherance of police immunity to 
the drawing of a curtain was the result of careful thought. As a shrine 

[ 43 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


at which to woo the fickle dame it remained a masterpiece. In its 
potentialities for evil, time proved it unsurpassed. 

* * * * * 

“Bishop, what does this game pay the house?” Anholt gazed stead- 
ily across the table into his friend’s eyes. They were seated in a small, 
thickly carpeted room, which, with its heavy flat topped table and 
two plain revolving chairs, presented a marked contrast to the luxury 
that prevailed elsewhere throughout the building. 

“Last year, Anholt, twelve hundred and twenty-eight dollars and 
seventeen cents, daily.” 

“Close figures!” commented the questioner; “and the proceeds?” 

“Two hundred and twenty-five for maintenance; two hundred and 
fifty for the purpose which Storey and I still disagree about; two 
hundred and fifty toward human betterment, and the balance — well!” 
and with a flourish of his hands he left his hearer to make his own 
inference. 

“And the cost to the — contributors?” 

“The money itself; nothing more.” 

“And the gain?” 

“Assured exemption from police annoyance — also from sharpers. 
Association with gentlemen; an honest game, and” (with his enigmati- 
cal smile) “the mental relaxation necessary to busy men.” Nothing, 
it seemed, could disturb the calm individual who received and promptly 
replied to Anholt’s questions. 

“Where do you come in?” Still the persistent voice and searching 
eyes. 

“Financially nowhere. In mental, and if I may use the term, in 
moral satisfaction under the conditions as I know them, everywhere.” 
Bishop had rested his elbows on the table, clasped his hands, and now, 
in a tone inexpressibly sweet, continued, “Old chap, don’t think in 
justification of my position here I plead the answers given as my ex- 
cuse in whole or part. Mine is no puerile action calling for the reasons 
of a child. You, my friend, when time and place are meet shall have 
the opportunity, as indeed you have the right to pass upon my course. 

[ 43 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


I brought you here tonight to see the hell that Bishop keeps. Impress 
it indelibly on your mind, for in the life of the man before you it is 
the worst that you will ever find. Perhaps, some day, even it will 
show a brighter side to you. I don’t believe I’m totally wrong. With 
Storey’s help I’m trying hard to see the light.” 

This from the epigrammatic Bishop; the short spoken, imperturbable 
being who defied alike, the pulpit, press and public. Again that subtle 
touch that draws the heart of man to man was felt by Anholt. Before his 
lips could utter the words his mind had framed, the buzzer, near the door, 
gave notice of a coming intruder. Bishop, releasing the door’s lock 
by the pressure of a button on the table, stood up, erect and motion- 
less. The face, soft as a girl’s a moment since, seemed as if by magic 
turned to stone. Now it was hard and impassive, as if belonging to a 
man knowing neither fear nor favor, loss nor gain. It was a mask, 
worn by the one whose word throughout this house was law; by one 
whom the greater law, to which we all must bow, had failed so far 
to reach. The person entering was recognized by Anholt as manager 
of the establishment. The latter, observing his employer’s companion, 
hesitated. 

“Well?” The word snapped from Bishop’s lips; it was curt — com- 
manding. The other — Walker by name — approached him and spoke 
for a minute in low, cautious tones. Anholt understood nothing of 
what he said. Now his friend answered in words short, decisive, 
quick. 

“Break him — flat! Let Bennett talk! No allowance; no violence, 
mind you!” That was all. The door closed again. The natural 
Bishop (“Storey’s Bishop” as Anholt learned to call him in the later 
days) resumed his seat. His visitor relit his cigar. He, who neither 
smoked nor drank, leaned back in his chair; leisurely raised one foot, 
resting it on the table’s top, and pensively studied the patent leather 
boot. Two — five — ten minutes passed. Anholt, intensely curious, 
yet having ample food for thought, smoked on. At last, the smaller 
man lowered his leg from its elevated rest, turned toward his friend, 
and said: 


[ 44 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“I never permit a man to become a frequenter here unless I have 
abundant evidence, first of his ability to stand heavy losses without 
a noticeable impairment of his resources, and secondly, that he has by 
persistent play become irrevocably attached to the game. Therefore 
I refuse admission to the amateur. If he succeeds in gaining an 
entrance his return is prevented by adequate measures. A half hour’s 
play by the embryonic gambler suffices for detection. Walker just 
reported a case in point tonight. The offspring of some worthy sire 
has hypnotized himself into the belief that he can handle cards. He man- 
aged to pass the lookout under false colors. Here, wait” — reaching 
over and pressing another one of the series of ivory buttons — “the 
Bishop recipe, warranted to cure disorders of this kind may interest 
you. Walker,” as the manager reappeared, “admit this gentleman to 
the finish in room D. He is Mr. Reynolds, understand?” 

“Pardon me, the name is Anholt,” corrected the one referred to, 
with a glance at Bishop, which easily interpreted, said : “If I ever get 
a chance to talk straight to this man I want him to know who his would-be 
pilot is.” 

“This gentleman, Walker, is Mr. Anholt.” Still the incisive voice 
expressing indifference to any mental comment his manager 
might make and absolutely precluding reply. The man bowing, fol- 
lowed his employer’s companion from the room. The delicate figure 
was again seated, the face resuming its pensive look. It was an invari- 
able rule of Bishop’s never to see an employee nor give an order 
except in the presence of or through his manager. No less unalter- 
able was his policy of speaking to none of his staff — Walker not ex- 
cepted — unless it be on business connected with the house and in this, 
his private, closely guarded room. At such times the attitude of the 
man was exactly as Anholt had seen him — erect and impassive, grasp- 
ing like a flash whatever the situation demanding his attention, and 
disposing of it on the spot in the fewest possible words — words clear 
and explicit, as they were also prohibitive of question or reply. Liberal 
in wages to a fault, he was a puzzle no more intelligible to his em- 
ployees than he was to the public mind. However little their liking, 

[ 45 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


their respect for him was infinite. They had yet to realize that his 
conduct toward them was bred as much of a feeling of contempt as 
it was of the spirit of discipline. A proprietor criticizing his help 
because of their faithful performance of duties imposed by him, would 
to them have been a situation incomprehensible. Only to those know- 
ing the man would any alternative explanation of his conduct appear 
improbable. 

Again the whirr of the buzzer. Again the pressing of a button. 
This time Bishop’s position remained unchanged. He knew who 
sought admittance. The door opened ; Anholt, disgust and determina- 
tion written on his face, and trembling in agitation as violent as it was 
beyond control, strode into the room. Walking straight to his 
seated friend, he stopped, started to speak, reconsidered, and turning, 
stepped around the table to his chair. With a jerk he brought it up 
and dropped into it. Leaning over, his arms resting on the table, he 
again opened his lips, again hesitated, and then, unable longer to 
restrain himself, gave expression to his thoughts. 

“Bishop, with me the pledge of friendship stands until Hell’s portals 
gleam with frost, but by the gods, I still reserve the right to think 
and speak !” 

“That,” commented the other, “I should call a rhetorical gem.” 
Neither interest nor concern were evidenced in the softly uttered 
words. Then, as an afterthought : “Will’st have indulgence in a 
smoke, my friend? A rich cigar is at thy call. Perchance ’twill calm 
an aching brow !” 

“Damn your cigars! Look here, Bishop, I’m beginning to believe 
you the vilest scoundrel or the wildest lunatic at large. That sounds 
pretty strong, but it’s straight. If you haven’t deluded yourself into 
believing any crime a virtue then I’m up in the air to find .” 

“My boy, you’re in the air, right enough!” Still the calm, indif- 
ferent voice, now grown exasperating as a taunt to the larger man. 
“Some men in that position lose their heads and take a sudden tumble, 
dangerous to their body and fatal to their pride. Others use discre- 

[ 46 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


tion as a parachute and land safely in the welcoming arms of friends. 
It’s all up to the man.” 

“Stop it, Bishop! This is no time for play of words. A rascally, 
dirty swindle was perpetrated on that lad. You know it for you 
ordered it. And this is your square game — this your boasted gentle- 
men’s club, exempt from crooks and sharps — this your . Bah ! it 

makes me sick. Bishop — man — my God ! Can’t you speak the truth 
just once — to me — your friend?” 

Pushing back his chair, he now stood, with hands and arms support- 
ing body as it leaned across the table. His voice, first denuncia- 
tory and sarcastic dropped to one of passionate entreaty. If the other 
heard he gave no sign. In the silence of the room, Anholt’s rapid 
breathing and the ticking of their watches alone were heard. After a 
time the low toned words : 

“Our friend Storey has been here, Anholt, just as you are. He 
trusts me. Your friend Hope has been here, and he trust me.” 

“Bishop,” came the reply in calmer voice, “God knows I wouldn’t 
be unjust. Nor yet would I presume to pass adversely on acts which 
these, my friends, have given sanction to. To them was given con- 
fidence as yet withheld from me and properly so. They possess the 
evidence. I do not. But Bishop — friend— let me ask you this. Has 
either seen — has either passed upon a scene as dark, an act quite as 
contemptible as this — the robbing of a boy?” 

Bishop, with a half turn of the head looked straight in the speaker’s 
eyes. His lips parted as if about to answer. Then after evident recon- 
sideration his jaws closed with a snap. 

“Well, Bishop!” said Anholt, “I’m waiting!” 

“Did he lose everything?” Query took the place of answer. 

“Yes, he lost everything, and right well you know it! Money — even 
watch and pin!” 

“And temper,” supplemented the quiet one. “About the riot act; the 
farewell words of Bennett’s — doubtless discouraging to return, eh?” 

“Dignify your agent’s profane and obscene taunts as best you can,” 
came the retort. “If Hell has a representative on this earth you’ve got 

[ 47 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


him here in that fellow. God ! for a loud mouthed thief and braggart — 
Bishop, he wasn’t satisfied with open robbery, but ridiculed the boy until 
the young fellow lost all power of self restraint. Then when he started 
fight, Bennett and his pals must have him thrown upon the street. But 
pshaw ! what’s the use to tell the story to the man who framed the deal ?” 

“And you,” asked Bishop ; “where were you?” 

“Fooled by your man Walker into believing this the necessary prelude 
to a happy sequel. I awoke in time to see him started safely home.” 

“Well, ‘fools venture,’ and so the story runs. Anholt!” — the words 
came sharper now — “will this lad come again?” 

“Not unless it’s with the police — an improbable bit of good luck judg- 
ing by the way you handle them.” 

“Will he gamble — soon?” 

“I — should — hope — not! if the lesson taught tonight in your boasted 
house of gentlemen and honest play takes root.” 

“Ah !” exclaimed the smaller man, smiling curiously ; “reason has sup- 
planted passion — good !” 

“By which I may infer?” 

“That your common sense will some day approve a program originally 
my own and sanctioned afterward by our friends.” 

“Bishop, do you mean to tell me .” 

“That you lack the very essential quality of self-control, Anholt. 
Perhaps it’s just as well,” he added as if to himself ; “only honest men can 
safely have a trait or failing such as that.” 

“Your discernment, Bishop, exceeds your frankness. You might 
stretch the latter a little and give me a small jot of information.” 

With a movement as sudden as it was unexpected his companion shoved 
back his chair and stood facing him ; saying as he placed his hands under 
the tails of his evening coat : 

“Anholt, for density, no fog I’ve yet seen off the Banks, can beat your 
mind tonight. This young fellow was a novice, but wise enough to know 
that honest games are few, where stakes are large. He knew the reputa- 
tion of this house, and under false pretenses managed to get in, as he 
believed among gentlemen. Suppose he’d won — and let me tell you now 

[ 48 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


it’s winning at the start that puts the shackles on — he’d have come here 
again and still again — had I permitted — and his winning of tonight would 
have held a place in memory against a thousand losing and forgotten 
games. Well, he didn’t win — the gentlemen were knaves — the game a 
swindle! He was robbed, ridiculed, and kicked into the street; and all 
this in Bishop’s place. Therefore, all gambling houses are dens of 
thieves and those who enter, the prey of crooks. It’s poor encouragement 
to a budding friend of chance. He’s had his lesson; impressive, and a 
trifle hard. Its cost may make it worth remembering. I hope so — I can’t 
tell — that’s the chance I take.” Bishop, stopping, tried to read the 
other’s thoughts. 

“Well?” interrogatively. 

“About his money?” asked Anholt. 

“Which he can well afiford to lose, leaves the tables of green baize for 
others of plain, unvarnished wood ; and food, not chips, will now be 
bought with it.” 

His friend without replying began pacing the room with rapid steps. 
He remained, standing motionless — waiting. Decision came to Anholt’s 
mind. He started, with extended hand toward Bishop, to find a warm, 
responsive grasp. 

“Bishop,” he said, “I’ve seen men reach the Land of Great Desire by 
many long and devious routes. I’ve seen others, lost, travel in a circle 
believing they were going straight ahead, but landing, eventually, exactly 
where they started. I haven’t seen the map on which your way is marked, 
nor can I tell what class you’re in, but I’m going to trust you, Bishop — 
I’m going to back you comrade, right up to the limit of my power.” 


[ 49 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER V. 

“Hello! What’s this?” Anholt caught the paper fluttering to the 
floor. “A cheque — five hundred dollars — from Stanley Hope to me — 
Great Caesar’s Ghost ! Better look again — your’re right — it’s there, plain 
as daylight — five hun ” he brought himself up with a jerk. “Sup- 

pose for a change you read the letter. Maybe you’ll wake up then.” 
Carefully laying the cheque face downward on the desk, he picked up 
and cast his eyes over the explanatory sheet. He gave a start and the 
chair in which he had been leaning back, came down with a sudden 
thump. 

“Ye gods and little fishes ! listen, will you, to this?” 

“Did you call, Mr. Anholt?” From a table at his left a woman spoke. 

“Eh? Oh! no, Miss Von Bonhorst; merely a twitch at the heart, is 
all.” His eyes turned again to the fascinating paper. It read : 

“Dear Anholt : — 

The enclosed will help a little bit in getting wife and home together 
again. Keep it and use it. I have more than I require just now anyhow. 

Yours to the end, 

Hope.” 

It was a practice of Stanley Hope’s to answer all personal letters 
promptly on their receipt ; not the most difficult task, as he possessed the 
faculty of condensing his replies into a few short lines, in which, however, 
the personal feeling was still in evidence. Anholt, mindful of this trait 
of his friend’s, turned the short communication sideways and wrote with 
crimson ink across its face, in bold letters, the words : 

“Thanks. I will. 

Gratefully, 

Anholt.” 

“That,” he commented, after sealing the envelope and handing it to 
the office boy to mail, “should reach him in an hour. Not bad postal ser- 

[ 50 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


vice, since it’s been less than two hours in reaching me. Oh ! Miss Von 
Bonhorst,” addressing the woman who had spoken to him a few minutes 
earlier, “can you spare a moment?” 

Stopping in her work, she came to his desk. There were those who 
thought Miss Von Bonhorst possessed a hauteur out of keeping with 
her p’ace. Others attributed her appearance of reserve to some sad 
experience in life. Still others to a due regard to what she owed herself 
as the sole female employe in an office filled with clerks. All agreed that 
she was good looking; many termed her beautiful. None disputed the 
evidence of her culture and intelligence. To those who knew her best 
the attributes of a brilliant mentality were manifest in an unobtrusive 
way. A pronounced brunette, of rather tall, but full and graceful figure, 
she exhibited the energy and adaptability popularly accredited to that 
type. Quick and accurate, she had seized with comprehensive glance the 
essential details of her work. Industrious and forceful, she possessed in 
times of trial a patience that seemed unlimited. In the evidence of a 
calm reserve she found her strongest title to respect. In years not over 
twenty-four or five, she dressed with the simplicity and quiet elegance of 
a woman carrying greater age. In her personal habits as in her work 
attention to minor things was manifest. Hair, skin and nails — each told 
the story of her ever watchful eye. Who she was, beyond her name; 
whence she came or what her life had been, none but Anholt and the 
firm — if indeed the latter knew — could tell. Employed by the former as 
stenographer, the firm’s active head had, within the month, drafted her 
for confidential work. Her influence was little short of Anholt’s own. 
She had written her credentials in her work. In the language of the day 
she had “made good,” and that was quite enough to know. 

As she reached his side, Anholt handed her the cheque, at the same time 
advising her of the letter’s contents. 

“What a man !” she commented. 

“And,” said Anholt, “what a glorious surprise to the little girl of mine ! 
I’ll feel like writing her in rhyme tonight — thus early dawns the sunshine 
of our sweet domestic bliss, or something along that line — kind of smooth 
and flowery like you know.” 


[ 51 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


The woman smiled. “ You’re in rare mood today. I suppose con- 
gratulations are in order,” adding after a pause, “You’ve really decided to 
accept this?” 

Anholt looked up with a half astonished, half interrogatory air. 
“Accept it — Great Guns! yes. I’ve already accepted it. What possible 
alternative could there be?” 

“None, I suppose. It means so much to you ; and yet ” the woman 

hesitated. 

“Out with it!” exclaimed the man. “Let’s see the little joker. I might 
have known I’d overlook a card when dealt a hand like this.” 

“Why, Mr. Anholt! Do you pass your evenings with our entry clerks? 
But really and truly, I didn’t mean — I — why of course you should accept 
it.” 

“Oh ! Come now, Miss Von Bonhorst. Evasion and hesitancy are not 
your forte. The inference is too obvious. You know, sometimes it’s 
politic to be frank. Pardon me, you’re standing,” and he proffered her a 
chair. 

Forced on the defensive by Anholt’s words and act, the woman’s 
natural propensity for candor conquered her fear of being charged with 
playing a presumptuous part. Seating herself in such position as would 
bring his face in profile, she said : 

“A woman’s sentiment, you know, Mr. Anholt, seldom finds its birth 
in reason, and I suppose you are right; but I’d rather hoped you would 
make your way without — well, without anybody’s financial assistance. 
There, I’ve said it ! and you shouldn’t have urged me.” 

“But, Miss Von Bonhorst, aid is something we all must receive at times. 
Why discriminate as to the kind — between let us say, work and gold? 
One’s obligation is as great to the giver of the one as to the other ; the 
acceptance of gold no less honorable than that of work — coming, I 
mean, under conditions such as this and if — one makes an honest effort 
to pay it back.” 

“From the point of one in need I know you’re right,” she replied. “I’m 
the last person in the world who ought to argue that with you.” Some- 
where in the woman’s armor he had touched a tender, penetrable spot. 

[ 52 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Don’t, please ! You know that such a thought was furthest from my 
mind.” He picked up a pencil and tapped lightly on the desk. “Of 
course,” he reflected, “I’m not in need as a matter of existence, but this 
would mean a near approach to life.” Again he spoke to the woman. 
“Don’t you understand what all this means to me ; wife, and home, and 
regularity of life — the ideal combination of effective forces to insure a 
man’s best work?” 

“Yes,” she responded, “I do understand, but don’t you think that by a 
temporary curtailment of your generosity, you might reap the benefit of 
all these factors without incurring this added obligation? I’m sure 
Mrs. Anholt would be happier in a little flat, rented furnished if you must, 
and paid for out of what you can earn, than in a costlier home procured 
at another man’s expense. And — you would find ample compensation in 
your independence.” 

“Do you believe Mr. Hope would endorse your opinion ?” asked Anholt, 
partially convinced that she was right. 

“Mr. Hope gives as a matter of course,” she replied; “and, I suppose 
expects the acceptance of his gifts in the same spirit. If you accept this 
money you will not be lowered a bit in his estimation ; but if I were 
in your position and wanted an opportunity to show the kind of stuff I 
was made of, I’d supplement my acknowledgment of his kindness by a 
courteous but firm refusal of the cheque and send it by a special messenger 
at once. I know,” she concluded, “you’ll call that all sentiment and a 
woman’s way.” 

“No I won’t. I’ve infinite respect for your opinion and you know it. 
But. I do believe for just this once I can go contrary to your advice and 
still be right. Here I am since my last advance — drawing what? Twenty- 
five a week. I might, by rigid economy, ’tis true, in time accumulate the 
necessary sum ; but it would mean a reduction in my remittances to Mrs. 
Anholt, which goodness knows, are quite too little now. It would mean 
a further retrenchment in my own cost of living, and worst of all an 
absolute cutting off of the little good I am doing now among the ones 
who need help most. In other words, in refusing this — loan, I am 
depriving my wife of many needed comforts, myself of common necessi- 

[ 53 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


ties, and at a time when a little aid may mean a man’s salvation, I m 
robbing him of that. Everybody suffers because I choose to bank on 
futures which may materialize or not. Here,” picking up the cheque, is 
the actuality — wife, home, happiness and a better chance to help some 
other poor devil who can’t live on theory or sentiment, however promising 
it may appear. Believe me, Miss Von Bonhorst, I appreciate most fully 
all that you have said, and especially do I value the motive inspiring the 

words, but ,” folding the cheque and placing it in his pocket, “I’ve 

chased the illusive mirage of unsatisfying hope until I’m tired. Let me 
rest now in the Temple of Today !” 

The w'ords, typical of the man, had closed the door to further argu- 
ment. 

“And yet,” she said arising, “I fear in that illusion the germ of all 
your reasoning found its origin. Anyhow” — her eyes grew tender — “for 
your sake I hope the proverbial infallibility of woman’s intuition will prove 
at fault for once. Perhaps — it will !” 

“Perhaps !” he agreed in a low tone as both returned to their uncom- 
pleted tasks. 

A substantial oaken railing separated the space occupied by the main 
office force from that reserved for the use of Anholt and Miss Von 
Bonhorst. Passing through the latter semi-private enclosure one reached 
the office used exclusively by the members of the firm. During the clerks’ 
absence at the noon luncheon hour, Anholt invariably remained at his desk 
in order to give immediate and proper attention to any client dropping in 
within that time. Today he looked forward to this recess with a feeling 
of impatience. In spite of the decision his words to Miss Von Bonhorst 
would imply his having taken as regards the gift — or loan — of Hope, a 
sense of doubt, impossible to overcome, held possession of his mind. An 
insistent something, strangely indefinable and vague, induced recurrence 
of his thoughts, to the woman’s candid advice. He determined, during 
the short surcease from pressing duties of the day, to discuss the matter 
further with himself and to search for a more cogent argument justifying 
his acceptance of the check, than he had as yet brought forth. If he failed 

[ 54 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


— well then perhaps, he might subordinate his inclination to what he 
termed “the vagaries of a woman’s mind.” 

Almost coincident with the striking of the noonday hour — with the noise 
and bustle of the departing clerks, fearful lest they lose a minute of the 
work exempted time; and with faint acknowledgment of Miss Von Bon- 
horst’s pleasantry as she left the office, he gave vent to a sigh of relief, 
extracted from a pocket in his vest a monstrous long and black cigar, and 
leaned back with feet reposing on the desk, feeling equipped to handle 
with unbiased mind the proposition before him. 

Scarce had the first ascending wreaths of steel gray hued and curling 
smoke reached the ceiling in vain attempt for liberty, when a closing of 
the outer door, followed by the sound of an intruder’s slow, approaching 
footsteps caught his ear. Smothering an exclamation of annoyance, he 
brought his chair down with a thud, assumed an attitude more in harmony 
with the post he occupied, and turned — to see the bent form and sallow 
countenance of his undisguised enemy — Samuel Withers, of the League. 
Startled, but with emotion hidden beneath a smile of well feigned pleasure, 
he arose to meet his visitor, whose further progress was blocked by the 
heavy rail. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Withers; how are you? — unexpected — 
quite !” 

“So I should assume, sir,” came the dry reply. “Thank you,” as 
Anholt unlatched the low gate in invitation to the other to come in. Dis- 
regarding the extended hand, the old man took the offered chair, removed 
his hat and with hands resting on the gold knob of his cane waited until 
the more agile one resumed his seat. The latter, with a deliberation 
scarcely reflecting his anxiety to terminate the interview before the clerks 
returned, relit the slightly burned cigar — a vigorous puff or two — then 
laid it carefully down again and faced the associate founder of the 
League. 

“Go ahead !” The tone was one designed to force a prompt exposure 
of the other’s reason for this call. 

“You are impertinent, sir !” The thin, shrill voice was as exasperating 
as the retort. “Please to remember I’m here because of duty, sir, and not 

[ 55 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


to bandy words with fellows of your ilk. I’ll talk, and finish sir,” stamping 
with his cane upon the floor, “when I am ready, not before.” 

“Enough of that!” said Anholt. “I’ll hear you only, if you talk at 
once. That’s a concession, considering the excitement you’re laboring 
under. I can guess, though, what you want to say, having had substan- 
tial evidence already of the animus influencing your actions toward me.” 

“You shall hear me, sir — you shall! Understand first, I know you — 
know who and what you are. Your high flown talk won’t excuse you, sir, 
with me. You can fool Mr. Hope .” 

“We’ll eliminate Mr. Hope from this discussion.” 

“Yes, and may God forgive him, sir, for ever asking charity for such 
as you! That reminds me, sir — where is the money we gave you? An 
honest man would have kept account .” 

“We,” interrupted Anholt, “gave nothing; but I don’t mind telling 
you that a record has been kept of every expenditure, and Mr. Hope — I 
am obliged to mention his name — has it. I may say further that I’ve paid 
back, within a few dollars, the full amount advanced me.” 

“I don’t believe it, sir! But if you did, dare you admit where you got 
the money ? I know, sir. I’ll tell you,” and the aged man shook his finger 
in Anholt’s face. “In that hell hole kept by a miserable wretch named 
Bishop. You’re a gambler, sir! You’ve used the money given by God’s 
charity to pander to your vice. That vile creature is your associate. It’s 
with his filthy, sin-cursed gold you pay your obligation to the Lord. 
Deny your connection with him, sir ! I dare you to deny it !” 

Anholt, less startled by the violent tone and gestures of his caller than 
by his unexpected reference to his friend, hesitated to reply. Finally he 
said : 

“Mr. Withers, Mr. Bishop is my friend and the friend of many a better 
man than either you or I. But that just now is neither here nor there. 
You haven’t come here simply to display your venom. What is it you 
want ?” 

“What I want, sir, is to warn you to keep away entirely from the 
League, and more than that, to stop associating with our members. When 
Mr. Hope learns what you are he’ll be the first .” 

[ 56 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“I told you once before,” interrupted Anholt, “to leave that gentle- 
man’s name out of your remarks. Now about your wishes. Suppose I 
don’t care to pay any attention to them, then what?” 

“If not, I’ll find a way to make you go, sir, and go like a whipped cur. 
I’ve got evidence enough here now,” tapping his coat pocket, “to prove 
you a traitor to the men who took you out of jail. Now, sir, will you go, 
or must I scandalize the League to force you out?” 

“I’ll answer that, but let me say this first. You’ve been furnished from 
some source with bits of information substantiating in a way the deroga- 
tory opinion you had already formed of me. Without considering the 
various kinds of silly asses such action would make you resemble, you 
posted here hot footed in your excited state of mind, acted in a manner 
both undignified and rude, and used some very harsh and ugly terms. 
What have you accomplished? Nothing but your own abasement. Now, 
you — go ahead and use your information as you will. When you’re 
through I’ll still remain a member of the League. I’ll still retain the 
confidence of the men who, as you say, ‘took me out of jail.’ I’ll do 
more good and save more men despite that malignant tongue of yours, 
than the record of your whole self-centered life can show. Your inten- 
tions may be all right. I don’t know. But I do know that you’re one of 
the decadent roots of a very flourishing tree, under the branches of which 
I expect to rest and labor for many years to come. For whatever 
nourishment you helped to give the tree while it was young I owe you 
thanks. For, and in answer to all you’ve said today, I say, damn you 
Withers and all your threats !” 

With his last words Anholt, leaving his chair, walked to the railing and 
opened the gate. One construction only could be placed upon the act. 
The old man, with a look that told of unutterable hate, picked up his 
hat and passed out without reply. 

“Withers,” commented Anholt to himself, searching his pockets for 
another match, “has got something sticking in his craw of worse portent 
to me than anything suggested by his words. How in thunder did he 
happen to spring Bishop’s name? It looks, my boy, as if the thermometer 
was showing a decided upward tendency today!” He struck the match 

[ 57 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


with a show of irritation. “I suppose now I ought to raise the storm 
signal to Hope, but pshaw! what’s the use? I’ve caused him enough 
bother as it is. I think, 'sir’ Withers, we two will fight this out between 
ourselves. And there,” he reflected, “is Hope’s check. I’ve had no chance 
to figure that out. It occurs to me that fate has played — ah! wise 
thought. Old fellow, I’ll put it up to you.” His hand searching in his 
pocket brought forth a silver coin. “Heads, I keep it — tails, I don’t !” A 
flip — it came down, spun for an instant on the desk, and toppled over, 
the features of the goddess up. 

“That, I suppose,” he observed, picking the coin up, “is what Hope 
would call 'hugging the edge of the ethical sea.’ Well when lines become 
so faint they can’t be seen one needs must walk by chance !” 

Thus was disclosed another phase of the man’s complex character. Who 
of us can say that his way was not the wisest after all? 


[ 58 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER VI. 

Including host and hostess there were twelve persons seated around the 
massive table in the dining-room of Stanley Hope’s home. 

Now, whenever Hope decided that the spring of his optimism was in dan- 
ger of pollution by the pessimistic germ, he sought the reassuring atmos- 
phere of a few congenial friends ; contending that in the spirit of good fel- 
lowship one could always find a sure specific for the ills of doubt. And he, 
at times, had trouble with his doubts, just as you, and I, and every other 
man who makes of life a real and living issue, must have. For somehow 
in the philosophy of our being we note that virtues all find ground for 
combat with the less alluring tendencies of our minds. Optimism finds 
its challenger in doubt, and the contest waged between the two is one 
that never ends. And the more we give the matter thought, the stronger 
our conviction grows that fools alone can never see the darker side of 
things. The optimistic idea, from a more or less unmeaning term, has 
evolved into a science which takes the situation as it comes, submits it 
to the keen analysis of sane but hopeful minds; accepts the good, rejects 
the bad — then with the energy of its kind attacks all points concerning 
which a doubt may still exist, and moulds them from uncertainties into 
vital factors for the good. The pessimist is satisfied with nothing — the 
fool with everything. He of the optimistic temperament, through logic, 
hope and work still moves the world. 

All of this describes the creed by which Hope lived. Ofttimes sur- 
rounded by his friends he would pave the way for a warm discussion of 
this thing or that, concerning which he knew at least some present would 
express a strong opinion of distrust. Here and there he would note a word, 
an idea or a half uttered thought, and by and by when conversation lagged, 
his few, crisp, lucid sentences, the result of all that he had heard them say, 
placed on the subject an altogether different and usually a brighter light. 
Thus in radiating his cheerfulness to his friends, he found in expressions 
which they used, a medium through which he reinforced his own belief. 

[ 59 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


Within the past few days his patience had been sorely tried, both at the 
League, where the former regime’s adherents still manifested their dis- 
satisfaction with the current policy, and in the commercial field, where an 
unscrupulous competitor’s finesse had brought him irreparable and 
heavy loss. Hence the chosen group around his board tonight. But let 
us state exception here. His invitations numbered nine, for in Hope’s 
home provision always must be made for the unexpected, but ever wel- 
come guest. Tonight, by some queer freak of chance, the twelfth chair 
held the man of men one might expect to strike discordant note — the Old 
Man Doubtful of the League — Withers, the aged, the irreconcilable. True, 
he was within his rights. His friendship antedated that of any other person 
there, and Stanley Hope, regardless of their wide divergence of opinion 
at many crucial times, retained a feeling of affection for this old man 
whose courage of conviction had never yet been called in question. Per- 
haps, indeed, his very isolation in the world — deprived by death of chosen 
helpmeet, and poor in friends by reason of his narrowness of mind, had 
influenced the other’s attitude toward him. Certain it is that more than 
once in recent years Withers had dropped in just as he had done tonight, 
and — if the truth were told — had experienced a feeling of content while 
there, in the presence frequently, of men whose sentiments he so vigorously 
opposed. On his appearance, therefore, tonight, no construction could 
be placed of intent inimical to any other guest. And this was well, for 
opposite him and seated at the left of Mrs. Hope, was Anholt, subject of 
his inexplicable and undissembled hate. Of others present there was 
Storey, seated at the right of Hope ; opposite him sat Powers, a mainstay 
in the Corporation Counsel’s office, with Miss Wilberforce, of the public 
schools ; Emerson, the broker ; and Cunningham, treasurer of the League, 
filling out his side. Secretary Patterson, Mrs. Patterson, and Shelley, a 
coming light in the legal firmament, seated between Storey and Anholt, 
rounded out the list. 

One might suppose that whenever groups like this assembled in the 
home of Stanley Hope, the trend of conversation would follow no pre- 
arranged or definite course, but rather, would mark by its haphazard way 
the moods and passing inclinations of the guests, exposing little of their 

[ 60 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


more serious ideas and beliefs. But a mental memorandum made by one 
who watched, would disclose the fact that each one present had argued, 
explained or passed opinion on the subject which seemed of greatest 
moment to himself. Of monopoly in discussion there was none, but by a 
slight suggestion now and then the host made each a willing if uninten- 
tional entertainer of them all. Nor was it less a fact that in this way 
he found much good material on which to base appraisement of their indi- 
vidual worth. 

Thus it was that with the serving of the cheese, the conversation veered 
from Easter bonnets, in whose behalf Miss Wilberforce had made a more 
or less convincing plea — Hope having characterized them as an imposition 
on the man — to Shelley’s comprehensive if somewhat tedious explanation 
of why he lost his last important case, an incidental result of which was 
that his client now would lose his head. 

“Shelley’s excuse,” Powers made haste to say — helping himself for the 
third time to the Camembert, “is a good deal like the argument he inflicted 
on the jury. It’s a fine, long winded piece of talk. In another hour he’d 
have won his case — that is, if dreams go by contraries and men could 
vote while they’re asleep. I suppose, though, the poor devil had to have 
someone.” 

“As a matter of fact,” observed Cunningham, “the fellow deserves 
some credit for selecting Shelley. If I remember rightly he told the 
Herald man he didn’t want to live.” 

“Rail on, rail on, you fellows!” the lawyer made retort. “Many a 
little debt like this you’re running up has been liquidated by the payment 
of a good sized retainer fee.” 

“From a man,” commented Emerson, “ who makes a specialty of 
criminal procedure, the words are ominous. They might, with reason be 
called a trifle bit impertinent.” 

“You boys will have a really, truly quarrel some of these days,” ventured 
Mrs. Patterson, in doubt as to the intent underlying Emerson’s words. 
“The papers said Mr. Shelley’s speech was just a fine one .” 

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“Yes,” supplemented Powers, “and they said his personality was most 
engaging. What more, for the money, could his client want ? Especially,” 
he added, “as his chief aim was to die.” 

“Let the dead past take care of its own troubles, Powers,” said their 
host. Then to the company in general : “Apropos of capital punishment, 
Storey tells us, if Anholt would go up against the pros and cons he’d 
harmonize the bunch.” 

“Not harmonize, Stanley — hypnotize,” corrected Patterson. 

“Thanks ! I stand corrected. Since he’s converted Storey it must have 
been by anything but logic. Now if it had been our friend Withers here — 
I say, Anholt, train your guns his way. He’s as rabid a friend of the 
hangman as Most is of the bomb.” 

“The word ‘friend,’ Stanley, doesn’t do his feelings justice. I should 
§ay idolater,” broke in Patterson again. 

“Right again ! Patterson here, must be figuring on revising Funk & 
Wagnalls. Now, if Withers will lay himself open to conviction .” 

“Oh! yes, Mr. Withers, please do,” exclaimed Mrs. Hope, clapping 
her hands faintly. “Let us have a demonstration of Mr. Anholt’s powers.” 

Storey, the only one present except Anholt who understood the danger- 
ous trend of the conversation, now made a remark which caused the 
latter to glance wonderingly toward him. 

“It’s a cheerful way you fellows have — pardon me, Mrs. Hope — of 
selecting victims for the sacrifice. Now I don’t observe any broad smile 
of appreciation on the face of our friend, Withers, there.” 

“Without mentioning,” remarked Emerson, “that Anholt might pre- 
fer a less tough subject to test his logic on.” 

“Not at all,” responded Anholt, taking his cue from Storey. “Mr. 
Withers, I feel confident will gladly enter the lists in behalf of his less 
courageous friends.” To the majority at the table his words and 
smiling countenance conveyed nothing more than a friendly dare. To 
Withers their full significance was clear. It was a fling of the gauntlet ; 
a challenge defiant and direct; a biting and sarcastic taunt veiled under 
cover of smooth words. That the old man understood was proved by his 
face. 


[ 62 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Sirs,” he said, addressing no one in particular and vainly endeavoring 
to restrain himself ; “I’m an old man and in my time I’ve formed a few 
impressions, both of men and things, sirs, that don’t admit of change. 
I’ve opinions, sir,” speaking to Anholt now direct, “on other things than 
the hanging of a rogue which would require more evidence than words of 
yours to change. I protest, sirs,” again speaking to them all, “against 
being longer made a party to such tommyrot as this.” 

“With all due regard to the disparity in our ages,” Anholt felt impelled 
to answer, as he looked the other steadily in the eyes, “I will say now, that 
I expect with you, to make conviction follow evidence submitted by myself, 
on subjects more pertinent to the welfare of us both than is the one we’ve 
mentioned here.” Then, fearful that his words might place him in the 
light of lacking consideration for his host, he added, speaking to the 
company: “Really, there is nothing original — certainly nothing radical 
in the idea which unfortunately I unfolded to Storey here. He’s magnified 
a suggestion into a solution and seems to think on account of my ques- 
tionable paternity to the first I should defend any construction he chooses 
to place on the latter.” 

“The trouble with Anholt,” retorted the minister, “is that whenever 
he gets an idea that’s altogether wrong he’ll pump his argument at you 
until you half believe he’s right. When he strikes a trail that probably 
would lead to something worth the while, he lags behind and wants the 
other fellow to go ahead and blaze the balance of the way. When he’s 
wrong he’s right, and when he’s right somebody else has got to prove it.” 

“For shame, Mr. Storey; I think Mr. Anholt quite courageous in agree- 
ing to meet Mr. Withers in defense of his plan. I’m sure he’s equally pre- 
pared to meet some other nominee.” Anholt, to this defense of him by 
Mrs. Hope, bowed his thanks. 

“I don’t know what particular branch of occult science is being studied 
here,” observed Powers, leaning back and extending his legs in a most 
undignified manner; “or whether Hope has inaugurated a course in 
mental telepathy unbeknown to me, but if somebody will tell me what all 
this talk’s about, I think I’d feel less like a fool — that is, if anybody 
knows.” 


[ 63 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Correct! Powers,” said his host. “If Storey here will leave Mrs. Pat- 
terson alone long enough to state the question so we all know something 
about it, we’ll make it a table issue. Suppose we adjourn to the library 
first. Storey will be excused for taking his cigar there.” 

“Right, oh !” agreed the minister, arising and leading the way with 
Mrs. Patterson. Five minutes later chairs and couch were drawn in an 
irregular semicircle around the fire. Notwithstanding the genial warmth 
of the late spring days, the nights were chill, and the soft, red glow of 
burning logs made fitting capsheaf to the wealth of comfort Hope at all 
times offered to his guests. Storey, of course, had pre-empted the largest 
and therefore to him the most comfortable chair within the room. Seated 
in this, and furthest from but directly facing the fire he resembled as 
Powers remarked, “an interlocutor of the old time minstrel type, with 
the wielders of bones and tambourines duly ranged on either side.” 
Now, whenever the minister had opportunity presented for a smoke, none 
who knew him would delude themselves into expecting speech or comment 
until the grayish tip of ash had taken full and rounded form. Apropos 
of which truth Powers felt called upon to say that “All one needs with 
Storey at such a time is patience and sufficient self restraint to refrain 
from saying what one thinks.” In confirmation of which expert diagnosis 
the clerical gentleman puffed complacently on, threatening occasionally 
with half closed eyes to defy convention by resort to sleep. Emerson, 
inspired by the big man’s somnolescent air was endeavoring to start a 
discussion on the relative advantages of modern pajamas as against the old 
time sleeping gown, when Storey, with a sigh betokening infinite regret, 
opened his eyes, emitted one last, lingering series of delicate, whitish 
rings, carefully placed his treasure on the convenient tray, and said: 

“If my understanding of our friend’s position is correct, he doesn’t 
believe in capital punishment or life imprisonment at all; but, conceding 
that for a time at least, we must have them, suggests certain modifications 
of the law which, I am inclined to think, might eliminate many of the 
most objectionable features. He would make the proving of a consistent 
criminal record an essential condition to the imposition of the death 
penalty. Perhaps he can be inveigled into explaining it himself.” 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“You’ve said it all in one sentence,” returned Anholt; then to the 
company: “It has always appeared to me an anomalous phase of the 
law which gives the presiding judge no latitude when pronouncing sent- 
ence for the major crime, while with every other criminal offense the 
‘tempering of justice with mercy’ is permissible in large degree, because 
of history, influence, or of a thousand other reasons, both good and bad. 
But in homicide — and I refer to that grade where premeditation plays 
a part — no vestige of discretion is vested either with the judge or jury so 
far as the penalty is concerned, if they are loyal to their oaths and delib- 
erate intent is proved. Death or life incarceration according to the state, 
is the only, the inevitable price the man must pay — a condition, which if less 
serious would approach to a burlesque of justice. It is the only crime where 
a man’s record is not considered in imposing the penalty. The burglar, by 
virtue of his calling a potential destroyer of human life — by deed and intent 
a menace to us all, may, if the court so wills, assuage the anger of the law 
by one, or at most, a very few short years of servitude. On the other 
hand we find a man — let me state an actual case — of marked integrity, 
loyal to his family and watchful of his obligations to the church. One 
day the tongue of slander leaves its lurid imprint on the reputation of 
his child. He seeks the thing that gave life to the lie ; retraction is 
refused; he kills it and leaves the carcass where it falls. Premeditation? 
Yes. The facts are clear, and because the thing was born in human form 
the least the law can do — in this particular state — is to place an honest 
man behind the bars for life. Over twenty years ago this very thing 
occurred. I saw the shooting as a boy. Today, an old man, muttering 
incoherent words, wanders up and down the corridors of a prison’s 
insane ward. Robbed of liberty and the companionship of decent men, 
his mind diseased, his life a living hell, his family in disgrace and scattered 
to the winds, and the daughter long since forced to bear with cause the 
very charge that when untrue had wrought her father’s doom — this — all 
of this is what society has exacted. What has it gained ? You can answer 
that. And yet it takes persistent violators of the penal code; swindlers, 
thugs, second story men and all — note what minute percentage ever pay 
the maximum penalty prescribed by law — permits them on release from 

[ 65 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


each short prison stay, to mingle unmolested in acknowledged haunts of 
criminals, and so they menace, rob and slay. In due course the farce is 
re-enacted — arrest, conviction, short time penalty and all — and so it 
goes. Meanwhile, reformers talk and pray. I’m becoming more and 
more confirmed in the belief that he who slays and by that act commits 
his only criminal offense, is far less dangerous to the community at large 
than is the crook who prospers by his wits. I never yet have known a 
single authentic case in which an honest man — I use the word advisedly — 
proved guilty of a capital offense and by the interposition of a pardoning 
power permitted to resume his life among free men, has repeated the 
crime. I can name more than one man of the kind standing high on the 
ladder of commercial or political pursuits. But when I seek to find a 
substantiated record of some habitual criminal seeking and leading, 
unwaveringly, a consistent, honest life, the search appears almost hopeless. 
Perhaps the fault lies with society ; perhaps with the man himself. I shall 
not attempt to say. The fact remains that so far as murder is concerned, 
whether the one committing it has led an unblemished, Christian life, or 
whether he be thrice convicted thief, with death ever lurking in the 
shadows of his acts, the law makes no distinction. Neither the proving of 
a virtuous, blameless career nor the evidence of a record filled with crime 
shall avail this way or that. The court could not discriminate if it would. 
In other things we hold the past fair basis for prophesy of the future. 
Will the interests of society be less served by open acknowledgment of 
this truth and by applying it as fully to one guilty of the greater offense 
as to another convicted of simple larceny? If our dispensation of justice 
is to move along intelligent and consistent lines then let us have a code of 
laws embodying a system of reasoning uniform throughout. Today, in 
minor offenses this man is granted leniency because his previous life was 
clean. For the same violation of the criminal code another man must 
serve a longer sentence because he’s been habitually a wrong doer. The 
principle is good. And so, when we touch the gravest crime of all — as we 
have learned to view it — if we must take human life; if we must incarce- 
rate a man for all his years, let us act in reason. Let us make the impo- 

[ 66 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


sition of these penalties conditional at least upon the production of sub- 
stantial proof that the slayer is a graduate from the school of crime.” 

Anholt had paused at intervals as if he courted comment. Now, in 
reaching for the bonbon dish he signified that he was through. The 
others, by common impulse turned their eyes on Shelley, who by virtue of 
his profession should be the one best qualified to speak upon the issue 
Anholt had raised. 

“I think,” he said, in answer to the mute request, “that I can understand 
the premises on which Mr. Anholt has based his argument. I should like 
to ask him, though, what, in his mind, would constitute the proof of con- 
firmed criminal practices in any one man’s case?” 

“The habitual criminal act,” answered Anholt, “in force in many 
states, has already solved that problem to a slight extent.” 

“But it’s failed in practice, everywhere,” objected Shelley. 

“Yes, because society has yet to learn that a minor offense when com- 
mitted by a confirmed thief, deserves a penalty more severe than does 
murder when done by one who never erred before. Having designated 
death or life imprisonment as the supreme punishment, and by long years 
of undisputed practice having become confirmed in the belief that the 
murderer alone deserves such a sentence, it is not strange that we lack 
the disposition to enforce a law making one subject to its imposition for 
any other act. If, in criminal procedure we gave less attention to the 
deed itself and more to the circumstances surrounding and inducing it we’d 
be much nearer to the goal. I am confident the conditions made necessary 
by the habitual criminal law — namely, conviction for a number of offenses 
before life imprisonment can be imposed, could be made a basis 
on which to work out the problem we are discussing. Only I would make 
the number of convictions five instead of three. I should not consider 
that a too rigid requirement by any means. I don’t believe the third 
or even the fourth transgression always indicates an irretrievable lapse 
from a moral life. A fifth might — since for our purpose some limit must 
be placed — be considered as leaving little, if any, hope for the man’s 
regeneration.” 

“Anholt,” said Storey, “I thought you held no man so bad as that.” 

[ 67 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Please to remember,” retorted his friend, “Pm talking from an 
impersonal point of view. I’m subjugating my aversion to the extreme 
penalty under any circumstance in trying to prove your much talked of 
common ground an actual piece of earth. ,, 

The minister sighed. “I’m relieved,” he remarked. “I began to think 
I had harbored a delusion. By the way, friend Withers, what is your 
opinion of this dream of Anholt’s?” 

The latter started, fearful lest this time the spark would touch the 
powder. The lean, gaunt figure, seated nearest to the fire, for the 
■moment, scarcely seemed to have heard the question. Then with a snort 
of disdain and with eyes still resting on the flame, he answered in a tone 
of unconcealed contempt: 

“I never pass opinion, sir, on arguments of men who speak with 
knowledge of any phase of crime. My own experience, sir, and I regard 
it as a most fortunate one, has been limited to dealing with fairly honest 
people. I own, sir, I would like to know what degree of punishment this 
expert” — turing his sneering eyes full on Anholt — “would expect to pay 
if charged with the killing of a man.” 

Ignoring at first the open slur in the old man’s reply to Storey, and 
apparently unconscious of the surprise and indignation manifested in the 
faces around him, Anholt smilingly replied: 

“My dear Mr. Withers, under laws conditioned on such lines I should 
be quite exempt from anything approaching the extreme penalty. The 
victims of our application of the old Mosaic law, as I have taken pains 
to emphasize, must be shown to be habitual violators of the criminal code. 
Not through one offense, or two, or three, but with a regularity and 
frequency conclusively demonstrating their operations to be acts of 
choice and not of chance. And mind you, too, the record must be one of 
proof and not assumption based upon a probability, however strong. 
Understand me on this point; I want to see a just discrimination made 
in favor of the man who sometime in the past transgressed his country’s 
laws; who, though he long since satisfied those laws, still quivers ’neath 
the ceaseless sting of an unappeasable society ; who follows in the Mas- 
ter’s steps and in the sunshine of His work finds his shame more vividly 

[ 68 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


outlined ; who dares to do the right, and for it bears the taunts and jeers of 
those who consider him a hypocrite ; whose open wounds are kept exposed 
by libelous tongues ; who bows beneath the burden of unfounded charges 
made by cowards — by curs afraid to touch the reputation of one who never 
fell — by social and religious parasites who plead exemption from retribu- 
tory justice because the modern maxim runs, ‘Believe all things deroga- 
tory of the man who once committed wrong.’ I want to see that man, 
when charged with shedding human blood, receive the utmost leniency a 
just and honest law can grant. That such a man has lived his life, and 
until then has kept his heel from crushing out the life of hissing reptiles 
at his feet, entitles him to all the consideration any court can be empowered 
to give. For such a man has no consistent life of crime behind him, to 
darken now the door of hope. Now, sir” — the words rang out clear and 
strong — “answering your query, I would say, that if through innuendoes, 
lies and sneers, some man should make my existence seem a hell, and I 
should throttle out his life, then I should be entitled as a right, to clem- 
ency no less pronounced than I have urged for other victims of that class 
of cowardly and vindictive sneaks.” 

Hope, during Anholt’s reply to Withers, had leaned over and whispered 
briefly to Storey. The latter, the instant his friend stopped speaking and 
before opportunity could exist for either comment or answer by the older 
man, exclaimed: 

“Bravo ! well put, I call that ; but we’ve got to adjourn this discussion 
now. Anholt and I have got some missionary work to do elsewhere 
tonight, and along less original lines — that is, if I can ever drag him 
away .” 

“I forgot all about it,” interrupted the other, grasping the meaning 
behind his friend’s unexpected remark, “and” — looking at his watch — 
“if I mistake not we’re past due now.” 

A scarcely audible sigh of relief, passing around the group, mingled 
with the low-toned murmurs of feigned regret at their departure. Anholt, 
glancing back at Withers, who still retained his seat, observed him with 
clenched hands and half extended arms muttering to himself, as if invoking 
an unseen power to aid him in some dark and vengeful act. Shelley, per- 

[ 69 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


haps of all present, was disappointed at the sudden termination of what 
promised to be an argument appealing to his professional sense. 

“I want you to come up and see me some evening, old fellow,” he said, 
as Anholt prepared to leave. “I believe between us we could whip that 
thought of yours into shape — that is, if you don’t mind letting another 
have a finger in the pie.” 

“Thanks, I will!” as he started for the door. 

Hope, accompanying the two men to the reception hall, turned to 
Storey, saying: “I owe you thanks, old chap — the sky looked pretty 
ominous for a while.” Then he addressed Anholt. “What kind of a 
fracas have you and Withers started, anyhow?” 

“I’ll put the answer up to him,” was the reply. “He’s playing from a 
hand I’ve never seen. If he won’t explain, I’ll do the best I can the next 
time I see you.” 

“Good enough! Good night, fellows, and good luck!” 

“Nice cad, I am,” muttered Anholt, as the door closed on them; “to 
insult a man’s hospitality by venting my personal spite before his guests !” 

“You did quite right, my friend. I’m the responsible culprit. I told 
you long ago to advise Hope .” 

“Yes; well I didn’t. Where away now?” as if desirous of changing 
the subject. 

“To treat the first unfortunate we run across to a smile — I mean a 
literal one,” and he chuckled as they rounded the corner and started south 
along the Boulevard. 


[ 70 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER VII. 

Anholt was seated at his desk in the office of Carter & Dixon. A 
young fellow leaned over his shoulder. One who was short and thick 
set; his ill groomed appearance contrasting sharply with that of the 
carefully dressed man sitting in the chair. His face, devoid of beard or 
moustache, gave indubitable proof of a hard, uncharitable past. No more 
distinguishable were the half healed wounds upon the cheek and fore- 
head than were the evidences of a checkered life apparent in the lights 
and shadows playing across his countenance. Shadows that told the story 
of association with vicious things; of dissolute companions; of kicks, 
discouragement and drink; of a devil-may-care nature nurtured by mis- 
fortune and breathing its intense antipathy to the law — the law that 
excited his derision because of performances, to his knowledge too often 
bordering on burlesque. As against all this one saw at times the play 
of softer passions; of a disposition marked by traces of an impulsive, 
generous heart ; of an affection almost canine for the hand extended in his 
aid ; of a temperament absolutely immune from fear, and with strong 
proclivity for the truth, regardless of result. There were moments when 
his attitude and the expression of his face might well have been construed 
as being reminiscent of a more auspicious long ago. For true it is that 
blood will tell, and somehow despite the seeming consecration of a life 
to vice, the earmarks of nobility never totally disappear. Robert McNama- 
ra had traced his steps along some tortuous and very shady paths ; but for 
the man behind whose back he stood ; the man who had lifted his bruised 
and unconscious form from off the street, and had carried him, stranger 
that he was, from out the clutches of the police; the man who had 
watched over him ; furnished him with food, and medicine, and clothes, 
and argued him into a half belief in better things — for this man his aim 
and struggle now should be to try and show deserving worth. It was, 
therefore, with no feeling of unseemly disrespect that he exclaimed, while 
pointing with not the cleanest finger to a personal in the Herald : 

[ 71 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Now, what ’ell did I tell yer, Boss ? Git next ter this !” 

“Easy, Bob; easy!” Anholt answered, catching with his eye the para- 
graph the other pointed out. An instant later he started up, dropped the 
inevitable cigar, and seizing the paper with both hands, read the following : 

“If Anson Van Anholt, 30 years old, 5 feet 11^2 inches in height, weigh- 
ing about 180 pounds, dark brown eyes and black hair, slightly tinged with 
gray, will address the undersigned, a settlement may be arranged saving 
him unpleasant exposure. Anybody knowing this man’s whereabouts will 
be rewarded by addressing, E 179, Herald, Downtown.” 

Anholt looked up. “Will you please be seated, Bob?” The words 
were so low as to be indistinguishable by Miss Von Bonhorst, seated near. 
For a time he continued staring at, rather than reading the astonishing 
notice. Bob, swinging his hat between his knees grew restive. 

“Well, I’ll be teetotally dad pounded !” his patron exclaimed at last, and 
with a vehemence causing more than one clerk to raise his head in 
wonder. “Some friend,” he added, “has certainly lampooned me with a 
vengeance.” 

“Friend, nit,” snorted MacNamara. “I’m wise ter dat play all right, 
all right. Say, did yer ever know a bull at Headquarters wot they call 
Essingham ?” 

Anholt looked up with increased interest. “Well — I — should — say — 
yes. But, Bob, be careful ; speak low.” 

The young fellow edged his chair closer to the desk. “Now I’m goin’ 
ter put yer wise. Look ’t here, Boss, what’d I promise yer when yer 
put me next ter dis job ?” 

“You said you’d play square, Bob, and leave off drink and dope. Wasn’t 
that it?” 

“Sure thing, only I wasn’t lookin’ ter stack up against no sich stiff 
game as wot I’ve bucked, but s’help me God, Boss, I never held nothin’ out 
and I’m dealin’ ’em straight.” 

“I believe that, boy. You’ve made good all along the line. Bur 
where does this come in?” pointing to the personal. 

“Jist keep yer shirt on fer er minnit, will yer,” trying to move his chair 
even nearer to Anholt. “Here I goes pluggin’ around here and passin’ 
booze joints wit’ hands on me eyes and soon’s I git by and up goes me 

[72] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


head, what ’ell does me lamps light on but er plain clothes bull wonderin’ 
would he try me fer a touch er not. Well, jist nachurally me nerves goes 
broke, havin’ no red eye ter keep ’em ter th’ good, and meetin’ er cop 
puts me feet ter th’ cold storage — especially as how havin’ done nothin’ 
ter git pinched fer, I ain’t got no alibi fit. So havin’ sung me farewell 
hymn ter booze and wantin’ er steadier fer meself, I goes down and blows 
two bits fer celery from th’ dago, havin’ once heerd that it was good 
fer ” 

“In the name of the great double jointed toad!” broke in Anholt, sup- 
pressing a laugh in spite of his impatience, “cut out the history of your 
life and talk turkey, man.” 

“What ’ell — all right, Boss — I’m reachin’ fer yer ! Well th’ missis 
there,” motioning with his thumb to Miss Von Bonhorst, “gives me mq 
orders yisterday ter fix up old man Solomon’s leak, which wasn’t no lead 
pipe cinch seein’s how I tugged me liver out all day and wit’out me lunch 
at dat, havin’ f ergot it in me haste ter do her biddin’. So jist nachurally, 
bein’ somewhat punk when me quittin’ time comes I felt fer th’ price of er 
schooner on th’ “L,” thinkin’ ter reach Hungry Joe’s quick. Bein’ ter th’ 
shoddy on looks I stands in th’ bunch on th’ platform, when sudden and 
familiar like I feels er touch on me shoulder, and me friend Essingham 
says : ‘Well, Mac,’ says he, ‘I want yer.’ ‘Fer what,’ says I. ‘Oh, fer a 
look over in the mornin’,’ says he, which bein’ customary wouldn’t ha’ 
queered me only fer loosin’ out down’t Joe’s. ‘Is it so long fer me then?’ 
says I. ‘Maybe,’ says he, so it’s me ter gamble along nice and quiet like. 
Well, nothin’ was doin’ in th’ round up last night, so it was a bum 
bunch of stiffs waitin’ downstairs dis mornin’ fer line up. Sudden like 
th’ telephone buzzes and th’ sergeant sings out fer Essingham, who was 
apologizin’ ter me fer th’ trouble he took ter bring me in. Not havin’ no 
friends in th’ bunch I amuses meself listenin’ ter his gabfest. ‘Hello!’ 
says he. ‘Yes, I’m Essingham — Mister Essingham,’ which I knows by 
dat he must’ve chanct onter a gent. ‘Oh, Anholt,’ says he; ‘no, I ain’t 
got nothin’ more ter report,’ which nachurally makes me sit up not wantin’ 
ter miss nothin’ after him sayin’ dat. But th’ bull was wise and spieled 
low like so’s all I could lift was his sayin’ somethin’ about th’ Herald and 

[ 73 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


some personal wot was in it. Well, we did our little act upstairs and when 
th’ bulls got tired lookin’ Essingham takes me down and says, ‘Get ter 
'ell out o’ here !’ says he, w’ich bein’ somewhat late already, I skidood. 
Well,.jist nachurally I turns me lamps on th’ paper, w’ich if it was me, 
Boss, I’d put th’ editor er guy wot runs it on th’ terboggan slide fer fair.” 

“It isn’t the tool I want, Bob,” replied Anholt ; “It’s the hand that uses 
it. You’ve done me a real big service, boy,” grasping the other’s hand, 
“and I thank you for it. Now go after that job at Solomon’s place and 
finish it — and say, Bob! we’ll both keep our nerve up, won’t we?” 

“Fergit it — that’s er pipe !” and with a touch of dignity observable by one 
at least, the young fellow unlatched the railing gate and hurried to his 
work. 

Walking over to Miss Von Bonhorst, Anholt handed her the paper, 
saying : “Here’s an interesting item.” 

“Oh! that,” she replied, “I noticed it coming down this morning and 
showed it to some of the clerks. We had a good laugh over it.” 

“Yes, it is funny,” he retorted, sarcastically. “And as a joke, admirably 
supplemented by your witty idea of advertising it to the office force.” 

“I told them,” she explained, “how your friend had intended inserting 
it last week as an April fool joke and we wondered, since the paper 
published it a week too late, whether the joke was on your friend, the 
newspaper, or yourself.” 

“Miss Von Bonhorst, I should like for one full moment to take you 
by the hand.” He reached for the paper, adding: “Pray, accept my 
apology and thanks. Verily, diplomacy is but another name for woman !” 

Later in the day, the special messenger who had carried a note from 
him to Storey, returned with a reply. It read : 

“My dear Anholt: — Have just caught Bishop on the ’phone. We will 
handle Essingham. In the meantime have the enclosed inserted in tomor- 
row’s Herald. It will counteract the effects of the one today, which will 
not be repeated. I am uncharitable enough to believe Withers had a hand 
in this. Anyhow, I propose dropping in on Hope later and chatting with 
him concerning it. Come up tomorrow night. 

Yours, Storey.” 


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The enclosed copy for the personal was read with interest by Anholt : 

“Anson Van Anholt, thirty years of age, 5 feet 11 inches in height, 
weight about 180 pounds, black hair, tinged with gray ; dark brown eyes, 
and smooth shaven, when last seen, is chief legatee under his uncle’s 
will. In order to prevent publicity regarding the bequests it will be 
necessary to ascertain his address within the next thirty days. Anybody 
notifying Mr. Anholt of this advertisement or reporting his whereabouts 
to the undersigned will be liberally rewarded. Address E 180, Herald, 
Downtown.” 

“It may be all right,” commented the man referred to in the copy, “and 
I’ll put it in because Storey advises it. But it looks to me like planting 
seeds for another rattling lot of trouble.” 


[ 75 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“Funny personals, those,” remarked Emerson, tossing the Heralds 
on the table. “By the same token, too, it strikes me harder than 
ever that Anholt is a funny kind of a jigger.” 

“He’s a bully good fellow,” retorted Powers, warmly. “There’s 
a lot of knocking going on around here that ought to be stopped,” 
he added, glancing at the half dozen other members of the League’s 
Employment Committee who were lounging in the secretary’s office 
preparatory to holding their monthly meeting, as if challenging 
contradiction. 

“I don’t know anything about that,” replied the first speaker, “but 
he’s certainly laid himself open to conjecture in several instances 
lately, instancing his run in with Withers the other night for one.” 

“Yes, because he didn’t choose to ignore the inference in Withers’ 
words. Suppose our Christmas contribution did go to him. He’s 
paid it back, hasn’t he, when it .wasn’t expected or desired? I don’t 
know anything about his troubles and I don’t know anything about 
these advertisements, and what’s more Pm not trying to guess; but 
he’s a brave, tender hearted chap, and I like him.” Powers, who had 
been standing, pulled a chair up with a jerk. “And another thing,” 
he added aggressively, “He’s Stanley Hope’s friend, and that means 
he’s a friend of mine.” Another savage pull on the chair and he 
dropped into it with a defiant gesture. 

“You misinterpret Emerson’s words, Powers,” interposed Cun- 
ningham, whose conciliatory voice was habitually intervening at the 
ominous moment. “These personals, taken conjointly with the inci- 
dents referred to have only developed a natural feeling of interest 
in Anholt’s past in his mind, as Pm frank to confess they have in my 
own.” 


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“Which means, I suppose,” said Powers, “that until he decides to 
unbosom himself to you fellows, you’ll build with your conjectures 
any kind of a history you choose.” 

“You’re way off,” retorted Emerson, with a show of spirit. “If 
Anholt has swallowed his pill, he’s got my respect for the fight he’s 
putting up; but I’ll tell you this; it would help his friends — and I’m 
one regardless of your insinuation — if they had some actual data on 
which to base a refutation of the innuendoes and reports flying 
around.” 

“All of which reports,” returned Powers, “boiled down simply 
mean that he has answered for some mistake to the law, while the 
rest of us, fortunately, are only obliged to do so to whatever con- 
science we happen to possess. I’m tired of seeing a lot of our fellows 
hiding their moral slip-ups behind the bulletin board of somebody 
else’s misfortunes. Anholt doesn’t owe us anything, but we’re run- 
ning up a charge account against ourselves and he’s chief creditor. 
Did we ever help a fellow to a job before he came? If we did, I 
never heard about it. Last month we found employment for seventy- 
six men. Who started the idea? Anholt. He stands over here at 
the corner handing out our meeting cards on Sunday afternoons — 
and I’ve known him to get out of a sick bed to do it — because the rest 
of us are too almighty good for the job. I’ll warrant he’s got more 
poor devils on his list now, trying to put them on their feet, than the 
bunch of us put together — yes, twice over.” 

“Oh ! but you can overdo anything,” broke in Cruishank, a mite of 
humanity, with spare light hair parted in the middle with geometri- 
cal precision, and a delicate, carefully nurtured moustache, modelled, 
in so far as its strength would permit, on the bristling style affected 
by the German Emperor. “Dixon says he’s introducing a raft of 
nondescripts down at his office, headed by a Spanish woman with a 
Dutch name, and .” 

“That’ll do you, Cruishank!” interrupted Powers with an attitude 
and tone causing the other to cower like a whipped hound. “Dixon 
referred to Anholt’s hiring of anybody down there except the 

[ 77 ] 


never 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


time we had the matter of establishing our employment department 
up, and then he spoke in way of endorsement. Yes, and come to 
think of it, you sprung the question yourself or he wouldn’t have 
said anything. You’re a dirty little shrimp, Cruishank, and I don’t 
mind telling you so.” 

“Oh ! come now, Powers,” whined the little fellow, with a sickly 
grin and extending a hand which the other refused to touch. 

“Don’t talk to me !” exclaimed Anholt’s defender, with an expres- 
sion of disgust that penetrated even Cruishank’s unusually obtu^ 
brain. The latter’s inherited wealth had secured for him a certain 
kind of position in the League, but his disposition was of a character 
earning him nothing but the thinly veiled contempt of the other 
members. Not the least of the changes being effected by the recently 
installed management was the gradual elimination of a policy so 
questionable as to permit men of this stamp to do nominal service 
on the standing committees. 

Ignoring Cruishank’s remark and Powers’ heated reply, Simpson, 
a theological seminary student — once declared by somebody to be 
a “dead ringer,” minus years, for Withers — took occasion to say: “I 
don’t think anybody here means to question Mr. Anholt’s works or 
motives. For myself, aside from his smoking and drinking .” 

“Oh, bosh ! Simpson,” said Powers. “Seventy-five per cent, of our 
fellows smoke. The ones that drink differ only from Anholt in the 
fact that he isn’t hypocrite enough to try and hide it. If by doing 
so, I could get as much gray matter in my cranium as he has behind 
one ear, I’d take to drink myself. Suppose he does take a cocktail, 
or even more a day; what have we got to do with it? If this critical 
bunch will take a tip from me they’ll follow Anholt more and rumor 
less. I’m not heavy on philosophy, but I’ve learned to be suspicious 
of a man in exact proportion to the amount of suspicion with which 
he sizes up other men.” Reaching for the Heralds he tore them into 
bits, threw the pieces in the waste paper basket, and assumed his 
characteristic position of extended legs, crossed hands and 

[ 78 ] 


eyes 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


focused on the ceiling; an attitude understood by his friends to mean, 
“I’m done ; talk of something else.” 

A short time later the subject of their argument entered, accom- 
panied by Patterson, thereby preventing any recurrence to the topic, 
and the meeting — which strangely enough was dominated by the 
man they had so critically discussed — was productive of harmony, 
clearer understanding and results. 


7 !) 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER IX. 

“Your protege, I am afraid, is in trouble this morning.” 

“What! Bob — again?” and Anholt, in the act of unlocking his desk, 
paused and looked inquiringly at Miss Von Bonhorst. 

“His piscatorial proclivities and, I am afraid, a little lapse from the 
prohibition route, turned his head last night. He’s coming back to tell 
you about it. Indeed, if it wasn’t so funny, I’d try to tell you myself.” 

“It must be,” he replied drily, “when a woman hesitates to talk. I 
wonder, though, if your merriment really would preclude your treating me 
to an intelligent synopsis of the joke. If Bob ever starts his recitation, 
you may as well take the clerks on a picnic excursion. It’ll mean a day 
off for anybody near enough to hear.” He glanced hastily through the 
mail, and seeing nothing of sufficient importance to require his immediate 
attention, he turned again to the woman, saying, “What is it, anyhow?” 

“I’ll try,” she said, “but it’s just too funny. You know he drew his 
money last night, and it seems he stopped along the way somewhere to 
pay a saloon bill he said they’d been pushing him for.” 

“Yes, I know,” Anholt broke in savagely. “Jimmy O’Rourke’s. I 
told him to forget it and keep away from there.” 

“Anyhow,” she continued, “he did go, and says the bartender was so 
astonished at getting the money that he forgot himself and invited Bob 
to drink, which — to use his words — ‘as bein’ between gents, he couldn’t 
in reason turn down.’ I suppose, judging from what he said, invitations 
of this kind imply a reciprocal arrangement with the preponderance of 
trade in favor of the saloon.” 

“Marvelous intuition, yours !” commented the man, drumming the desk 
with his fingers. “One of the funniest stories I ever heard !’ 

“Your sense of humor is abnormal,” she retorted. “I thought the 
funny part was in what I am going to tell.” 

Anholt looked at her. “Go ahead,” he said. “I suppose he got drunk, 
lost his money and was kicked out.” 

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“Nothing so comic as all that,” she answered. “What he did do was 
to claim he could catch more fish off O’Connell’s Docks than any two men 
in the bar-room, after somebody had questioned his veracity. Evidently 
he had wandered off on that twelve-pound salmon trout story of his.” 

“The fool !” muttered Anholt, in a tone of feigned disgust. 

“And the worst of it is,” she kept on, “two of the Captain Foster’s crew — 
you know the boat that makes fishing excursions to the Banks — were there 
and they ‘joshed’ him, as he says, until he actually bet he could do it. I 
think they gave him odds — do you call it? — and he deposited all he had 
left — a little over thirty dollars — with the stakeholder. They’re going to 
have the contest Sunday afternoon. Poor fellow ! He says nobody was 
ever known to catch even a minnow over there.” 

“Well, those fellows ought to, since they don’t appear to experience 
any trouble in catching suckers on dry land. I wonder what in Heaven’s 
name is the matter with him, anyhow?” he added, in a voice prophecic of 
a warm welcome both to Bob and to his story. “I suppose next month he’ll 
be inaugurating a contest for picking up lost reputations along Broadway.” 

“I don’t think you ought to censure him. Bob’s a good fellow at heart.” 

“Which,” returned Anholt, “is merely the gracious way of referring 
to a man’s asininity. However, I guess it’s only a matter of degree with 
us all. Here, you, Tommy,” calling to the office boy, “find out where 
MacNamara is and tell him I want to see him here at noon.” Having 
given the order, he turned his attention again to the mail, Miss Von Bon- 
horst having already resumed her task. 

At eleven o’clock he left the office, returning shortly before the noon 
hour struck. Ten minutes later Bob stood before him, his nervous fingers 
clutching the rim of his second-season hat. 

“Well, Bob, so I’m the rummy, eh ?” 

“Not on yer life, Boss! Yer on, and it’s me ter th’ woods. On th’ 
level, though, does yer think I meant ter throw yer?” 

“What do you expect me to think? Didn’t I tell you to keep clear of 
O’Rourke and his place? Well, you didn’t do it, did you?” 

“S’help me, I had ter go, Boss. Yer see, here ’tis. Says I, ‘Jimmy, is 
me credit good?’ ‘Sure, Bob,’ savs he; ‘what’ll it be?’ And him lettin’ 

[ 81 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


a piker like me throw th’ gaff inter him like dat for more’n two weeks. 
Well, me conscience don't stand fer makin’ er fall guy out of no man wot 
says, ‘Mac, help yerself and pay when youse ready.’ I ain’t broke ter 
throwin’ them wot stands by me, w’ich is a game I sees belongs ter eddi- 
cation and ter them wot trails after sky pilots. So, says I — ” 

“All right, Bob,” interrupted Anholt, not insensible to the sting unin- 
tentionally conveyed in MacNamara’s words. “You were honest and paid 
your bill; weak and got drunk; a blooming fool and went as good as 
broke ” 

“Aw, what’ell if I am? It’s nachural, ain’t it? And Jimmy says: 
‘Mac, he’s on the level, dat guy is.’ Dat’s wort’ somethin’, ain’t it? 
Whacher want ter holler fer, anyhow? I’m here all ter th’ good and 
swingin’ me job.” 

“That’s right, Bob. You’re square with O’Rourke and back to work. 
Let it go at that.” 

“T’anks, Boss; yer white, dat’s wot yer are. I tole th’ missis, says, I, 
‘I don’t look fer no t’row down from th’ Boss, but dere’s goin’ ter be hell 
ter pay ,er me pipe’s gone ratty. Anyhow,’ says I, ‘I ain’t no stiff wot 
wants me wings hammered on all ter oncet. Let ’em grow slow and 
nachural like. Den maybe dey’ll stick.’ ” 

“My boy, you’ve a faculty for putting some pretty blunt truths, if you 
are shy sometimes on common sense. Well, what’s the answer about this 
Izaak Walton convention you’re to participate in next Sunday? Does it 
still go?” 

“Yer nearin’ th’ post, Boss ; I can’t reach yer.” 

“This sucker conclave; anglers’ freeze-out; lunatics’ stunt; anything 
you’ve a mind to call it.” 

“What’ell kind er dope’s youse smokin’, anyhow? Does yer mean me 
bait t’rowin’ contest? Yes? Well, den, jist take it from me, Boss, it’s er 
cinch, dat’s er draw. Me loose me cush on dem skates? Not on yer life ! 
Does yer t’ink I wasn’t wise when dey called me bluff? W’ich knowin’ 
even tadpoles was leary of th’ place I says — havin’ th’ right — it’s us fer 

O’Connell’s Docks. ‘Dat’s good,’ dey says, failin’ fer me game ” 

[ 82 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“That means you propose taking them on, I suppose?” and Anholt, as 
if in more relenting spirit, proffered the other a cigar. 

“T’anks” — putting it in his pocket. “Sure I’m goin’ ter take ’em on. 
What! me quit th’ game and th’ money on th’ table? I thought yer 
knowed me better, Boss.” 

“That’s what I wanted to find out,” said Anholt, bringing his feet down 
with a quick movement and reaching for his pocketbook. “Here, you — 
here’s a century ! I want you to place it — in your own name, understand — 
and get the best odds you can induce the other side to offer. Saturday 
noon I want you to come in here for further orders. But get that money 
down, somehow — all of it, mind you, to win. Now skip!”, 

Disregarding the speaker’s last words, Bob turned the bill over and 
examined it with undisguised curiosity. Then looking up, he said: 

“Is dis a josh yer givin’ me?” 

The answer was a trifle brusque : “I told you to bet it, didn’t I ? The 
money’s good, if that’s what’s bothering you.” 

“Den take it back,” replied Bob, endeavoring to thrust the bill in the 
other’s hands. “If yer wanter make er bonfire, blow it fer barrels or 
somethin’ der kids kin see when it’s burnin’. Nice big fire dis would 
make — nit.” 

“Look here, Bob, I know what I’m doing. Now will you place this for 
me, or must I do the betting myself ?” Anholt meant business— that was 
clear. 

“Honest ter God, Boss ! I thought yer was kiddin’ me. You’re on fer 
ter fall, all right, but it’s up ter youse. Wisht I’d had dis yisterday,” he 
continued, again inspecting the bill. “ ‘Hello, Jimmy/ says I. ‘Hello, 
Mac,’ says he. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I thought, Jimmy, I’d drop in and pay 
me little bill/ and I flashes th’ century. ‘Will I keep th’ change?’ says 
Jimmy, lookin’ sideways like, thinkin’ ter see er bull. ‘Aw ! no/ says I, 
careless like, ‘I’m jist goin’ fer ter t’row it ter th’ kids and see th’ scramble.’ 
‘Well/ says he, ‘not bein’ er millionaire meself, I dont happen jist ter 
have th’ change. I guess, Mac/ says he, ‘it would be less trouble ter 
youse if yer paid me wid somethin’ I knows erbout, and w’ich/ says he, 
‘a two-plunk size would be erbout der limit, and likewise,’ says he, ‘yer 

[ 83 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


wouldn’t be so near like er question mark.’ W’ich, bein’ somethin’ to it r 
Boss, I think maybe yer could hand me dis accordin’.” 

Anholt, taking the bill, replaced it in his wallet. “On second thought,” 
he said, “I’ll place this money myself, Bob.” 

Five minutes later, when alone, he smiled broadly. “Anholt, old man,” 
he soliloquized, “that’s the greatest idea that ever trotted down the pike. 
If there’s only room under that pier,” he continued meditatively, “and if 
I can get Bauman — he’s the best diver in the business — to turn the trick, 
it’ll mean the making of Bob. A little business of his own — that’s the idea. 
Nobody to yell at him ; nobody to discharge him ; nobody to — Gad ! there’s 
the plain clothes grafters. If they should get next, they’ll play him to the 
limit. Yes, and he’s got to steer clear of the dope. Confound it! I wish 
he’d never touched it. If he ever falls for it again — well, it’ll be the wind- 
up. George Harry ! if I can only save him — if I can show the true grain of 
that lad’s character to the world, I’ll be entitled to a non-revocable pass to 
the Golden Gates. Talk about me having a struggle on hand! Why, he’s 
putting up a bigger fight right now, than I’d ever dare to dream about. 
Think of it ! Studying his A B C’s at night, and hitting up Mass twice 
every Sunday, ‘so’s to get wise,’ as he says, ‘to bein’ a gent what can give 
some guy a lift,’ instead of remaining forever a ‘dinky, measly stiff.’ Well, 
well, lad!” as leaning forward, he prepared to use the telephone; “if we 
can’t put the deal through, we’ll certainly make the people think that Mardi 
Gras has shifted its habitat to O’Connell’s docks. Hello ! Central, give me 

John. I say” — a few seconds later — “who is this? Yes? Is Mr. 

Bauman there? It is? Glad to hear your voice, Bauman. How about it? 
Can we work the racket? Hurrah! That’s great news! I’ll see you 
tonight, at the Stevens House. So long!” and the neglected cigar reas- 
sumed its calm-compelling task. 

***** 

There may have been hotter Sabbath afternoons, just as there may 
have been Sundays when more excitement reigned around the vicin- 
ity of O’Connell’s Docks ; but if the evidence of available records can 
be trusted, this particular one stands out preeminently among them 
all; not alone because it marked the extreme limit of man’s ability 

[ 84 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


to withstand a temperature verging on the infernal, but as a substan- 
tial proof of his consuming curiosity, and of his unconquerable de- 
termination to get out and ascertain just what is going on, regardless 
of the weather, of personal discomfort, or of time. Of all days, 
it was the last that any man in normal mental state would choose 
to satisfy his piscatory bent; as, indeed it would be the last that any 
self respecting denizen of the deep would select as a fitting time for 
martyrdom. And if any one unlucky spot in all the sweltering city 
appeared to bear the brunt of a relentless heat God’s wrath more 
than did another, its location on the Metropolitan map would have 
been identical with that of the aforesaid Docks. Ordinarily the 
deserted air marking their appearance on Sunday, stood out in most 
emphatic contrast to the week day noise and hustle; with the gangs 
of perspiring, sun-browned laborers and longshoremen kept on a 
quick and constant move by the shouts of their profane and remorse- 
less bosses. Nor, during the morning hours of this particular day 
was any sign observable suggesting the unusual. About one o’clock, 
however, in the afternoon, some enterprising youth might have been 
seen lugging a board and barrels and other paraphernalia of the 
kind out on the wharf, and with them erecting, near the extreme 
eastern limit of the structure, a dispensary for cold soft drinks. Now 
and then some straggler wandered out as if to inspect the young 
man’s work, but soon discouraged by the intensity of the heat, 
retreated to the more alluring shelter of the convenient corner saloon. 
As the afternoon grew apace, these loiterers, gathered either in the 
room to the rear of the bar — having gained access through the “Fam- 
ily Entrance” — or in the welcoming shade of the ever existent awn- 
ing outside, discussed with no inconsiderable amount of ardor some matter 
seemingly of grave moment to them all. In such fragments of their talk 
as reached the ears of casual passers-by, the names of “Croogan,” “Scully” 
and “MacNamara” held the most conspicuous place. Much in evidence, 
also, were such descriptive terms as “chump,” “fake,” “hug-house/’ 
“strong arm game,” and “graft,” and so on down the list of unattractive 
but expressive slang. 


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“Dese stiffs,” remarked one-eyed Connelly, leaning against the 
iron railing guarding the basement steps to Jimmy O’Rourke’s saloon, 
“makes me tired. Say, dat guy Mac is buggy — him wid t’irty plunks 
ter der good and trowin’ it at dem grafters. How’d he dope’t out 
ter make er git-a-way wid dat mazuma, and him makin’ de try out 
at t’ree o’clock? Say, it is ter laff !” 

“Mac’s onter his job, all right, all right,” commented an individual 
whose attire and general air of prosperity, indicated the possession 
of a more or less steady job. “Fennessy says there’s somethin’ doin’. 
He’s figgered up there’s more’n three hundred cases plunged on Mac, 
mostly one to five ; and that’s no lie, either.” 

“Aw! back up, will yer!” retorted the single eyed speaker. 
“Youse’d all be comeons only yer shy der dough. Say .” 

A procession of perhaps fifty men, followed by as many boys, had 
unexpectedly rounded the opposite corner, and were now headed in 
the direction of O’Connell’s Docks — the adults, almost to a man, 
carrying, instead of wearing their coats and vests, and with cotton 
handkerchiefs taking the place of uncomfortable and wilted collars. 
Conspicuous in the party were MacNamara, Croogan and Scully; 
the first — to the surprise of his acquaintances — looking remarkably 
well-to-do in a nobby suit of serge and wearing a yachting cap of 
pure white duck — a cap as yet unsullied by the use of man. Croo- 
gan and Scully, his opponents in the coming contest, more mindful 
both of the weather conditions and of the task confronting them, had 
discarded all unnecessary apparel, and with slouch hats, time-worn 
shirts and trousers — Scully alone wearing a pair of dilapidated shoes 
— looked prepared to win the contest on its merits, or to mete out 
vengeance in muscular combat if they lost. The balance of the crowd, 
consisting largely of saloon keepers, bartenders and their hangers-on 
— most of whom were to some extent financially interested in the 
outcome — were divided into two readily distinguishable groups, one 
embracing the MacNamara following; and the other banking its 
hopes on the proficiency, or luck, of the two men whose vocation lay 
in this particular field of effort. The procession now, had reached 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


the wharf, which by this time had begun to assume a gala-air. 
Small boys fringed its edge, kicking their heels against the wooden 
piles; while their mothers and sisters, shielded from the sun’s torrid 
rays by umbrellas and parasols of various qualities and hues, gos- 
siped in the manner possible only to women in their sphere of life. 
That the business acumen of the lad whose assets in trade consisted 
of lemonade and ginger beer, was not at fault, was evidenced by 
the rapidly diminishing stock. And now this reckless expenditure 
of minor coins gave inspiration to a few perspiring individuals of 
Teutonic cast of countenance, who straightway left the wharf to 
reappear a short time later with the necessary accoutrements of that 
peace and harmony assassin — the ubiquitous German Band. With 
the approach of the contestants and their retinues the maddening 
program of discord was inaugurated. As the partially recognizable 
strains of ‘‘Hail, the Conquering Hero Comes!” reached the ears of 
MacNamara, he turned to Mike Fennessy, on his right, and ex- 
claimed : 

“What’ell do dey think dis is — a balloon ’cension er a funeral?” 

“Well, it ain’t no parachute stunt, Mac, and if they make it a 
funeral you’ll be the one a-wearin’ flowers when it’s over.” 

“Not on yer life. Look’t here Mike, does dis mob think th’ bet 
calls fer me ter trow th’ hooks inter fish wot’s deaf and can’t see? 
What’ell chanct Ve I got ter catch anyting else?” 

“You’ve got as much chance as the others, ain’t you?” 

“Aw! don’t spiel no con ter me like dat, Mike. I’m lookin’ ter 
cop me own dough back, dat’s wot; and now wot wid dat pretzel 
chewin’ bunch and th’ women and kids, like’s not I’ll t’row th’ wrong end 
in th’ river, and bite th’ hook meself.” 

“Well,” offered Fennessy, “you won’t be no more daffy than when 
you sprung your bluff.” 

“Dat,” said Bob, “wasn’t no bug-house play. It was er nachural 
condition.” 

By this time they had reached that portion of the structure adja- 
cent to the lemonade vender’s stand. The principals’ partizans 

[ 87 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


formed a semi-circle facing the edge of the wharf ; the open space 
being reserved for the contestants themselves, and for Fennessy, who 
by virtue of his position as stake-holder and referee now assumed 
the duties of spokesman. The crowd had gradually worked itself 
into a compact mass around the outer edge of the half circle formed 
by the aristocracy and moneyed interests of the assemblage, with an 
intention first, of hearing what Fennessy might have to say, and 
secondly, of keeping an eye on the progress of the ridiculous contest. 
But five persons in the gathering appeared indifferent to the real 
object of the occasion, and these five, contented with the devilish 
noise their instruments produced, gave little heed either to the protests of 
the crowd or to the angry shouts of Fennessy. 

‘Til give some kid a quarter,” he yelled in desperation, “if he’ll 
suck a lemon in front of that sauerkraut gang. Where’s that cop 
what called for the reserves?” he added, “have him throw them 
Dutchmen overboard, somebody.” 

Whether his breath failed him or reason came to the rescue is 
inconsequential. Certain it is, that he stopped, mopped his face vig- 
orously with a marvelously decorated handkerchief, and sitting on 
a box loaned him by the young merchant, waited without further 
word for the torturing sound to stop. As with all other things, both 
good and bad, this massacre of a master’s work came to an end. 
The horns were lowered, the smiling mind wreckers looked up in 
innocent surprise at the manifest lack of appreciation of their strenuous, 
whole hearted efforts. A half consumed orange struck fairly on the 
ruddy countenance of the fattest of the five. “Mine Gott!” — a laugh 
by the people gathered round — comparative silence for a moment — 
then Fennessy resumed his standing position on the box, and with 
hat in one hand and handkerchief in the other, commanded silence. 

“Ladies and gents,” he began. “Under the terms of this try-out, 
Bob MacNamara bets Tommy Croogan and Pinky Scully that he 
can catch more fish with hook and line here, in a certain time, than 
both of them put together. The go will be for an hour and the side 
havin’ the most fish at the end, wins. If nobody don’t catch nothin’ 

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then they hit it up for another hour and they’ll keep this up until 
one side or ’nother hooks somethin’. I ask you to give the boys 
plenty of room and let ’em alone so’s no holler can come from the 
losin’ side. Thankin’ you one and all for your kind attention .’’ 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” somebody shouted. “Meals will be 
served here daily at the small price of fifteen cents each. Rooms and 
lodging will be furnished after the first of the month. Special rates 
to guests staying to see the end of the play.” 

“What’s de matter wid youse?” exclaimed a young fellow known as 
Sammy the Tout. “Der ain’t goin’ ter be no endin’. De only fish dese 
blokes ever seed was dem wot dey gits wid de booze — Holy Moses ! Say, 
dis is fierce !” he added, removing with his finger the rivulets of perspira- 
tion coursing down his face. 

“Is dat .so?” said MacNamara, starting to undo the parcel containing 
his outfit. “Anyhow, dis ain’t no snake contest, w’ich is yer limit, 
Sammy.” 

“Wot’s dat t’ you?” and Sammy shoved his way, with threatening ges- 
ture, well up to the open space. 

“Nothin’, only I’m payin’ fer th’ fish, see — and say youse .” 

“Stow that, Mac ! Get busy there — it’s three now,” and Fennessy, after 
looking at his watch, shouted to Croogan and Scully: “All right, boys; 
throw your lines !” 

Whether there was anything like a feeling of shame in the minds of the 
two men who possessed such a decided advantage over MacNamara, both 
in numbers and experience, is doubtful. There was nothing in the physi- 
cal appearance or mental make up of either on which to base an assump- 
tion of the kind. It was evident, however, by the quiet, yet decided 
manner in which they acted — paying as little attention to the doings of 
Bob as they did to the gibes and sarcasms of the crowd — that a firm 
intention of winning possessed their minds. The promptness with which 
their lines struck the water in response to Fennessy ’s words helped to 
confirm one in this belief. MacNamara, who felt it incumbent upon him 
as a matter of principle to give reply in kind to what he designated “the 
funny talk” around him, had just exposed the contents of his package 

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to the gaze of the curious onlookers. Suddenly snickers here and there 
gave way to one uproarious laugh. 

“Pipe de hawser!” shouted a ten year old, dodging out of reach. 

“Mac’s gone, all right!” said another. He’s .” 

“Here, what yer t’rowin’ us ?” broke in Croogan, a tall, burly individual, 
who, hearing the laughter, had glanced at Bob’s outfit and now advanced 
threateningly toward him. “I t’ought dis was to be a fishin’ deal — who 
in hell said we was goin’ to run a lynchin’ bee? Here, Pinky,” as the 
other swaggered up ; “look at th’ rope, and say, if th’ hook ain’t th’ limit ! 
Whacher think this is” — addressing Bob — “a whalin’ ’spedition ? Mike” — 
to the referee — “would yer make us stand fer him usin’ three hooks?” 

“Aw, go back and sit down,” his adversary broke in. “Dat’s only one 
hook wid t’ree points, and wot’s th’ matter wid th’ line? Youse two skates 
playin’ aginst me and den welchin’ at dat. Put ’em wise, Mike,’ and he 
prepared to cast his line. 

Fennessy, looking at the layout, again started laughing. Nor all things 
considered was it to be wondered at. The line itself, if not of the regu- 
lation clothes line type and size, was sufficiently near it to satisfactorily 
perform, if called upon, the humble duties imposed upon that useful 
household article. At distances of perhaps, two feet, four sticks of wood, 
eight inches long, and evidently cut from the handle of a retired broom, 
were tied securely with ribbons of red and vivid hue. The hook, with 
three immense curved points — if such a description is intelligible — and 
covered with pieces of dried eel’s skin for bait, might better have been 
used as anchor for some light tonnage craft, than as a tempter to mis- 
guided members of the finny tribe. Such an outfit, together with the dis- 
gusted expression on Bob’s face as he caught the unflattering comments 
aimed at him, might well have furnished grounds for doubts as to his 
sanity. But with conditions so ridiculous, to view the situation with a 
serious mien was the last thing Fennessy or the crowd could do. After 
a time however, the referee aided by the torture he was undergoing from 
the heat, began to feel in less hilarious mood. So it was, that after 
removing tie and collar — coat and vest having been discarded before he 
reached the wharf — he stood upon the box again, protected by an umbrella 

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which assisted him in preserving his equilibrium on the dangerously 
unstable support. 

“There’s no kick cornin’ on that rope,” he began; “because a rope’s a 
line, though that doesn’t say always that a line’s a rope. But about that 
hook. Is it a hook or is it hooks? A hook is a bend, and there’s three 
bends. But there’s only one stem and that’s what the line’s tied to. Does 
that make it one hook or three hooks? Now I reason it’s like a saloon. 
A saloon’s a room, but a room ain’t always a saloon. Likewise, if I got 
three rooms, which as you all know I’ve got, is it one saloon or three 
saloons? Nobody says, ‘Let’s go to Fennessy’s saloons,’ does they? That’s 
sense, ain’t it? The decision of the referee,” he added, “is that it’s one 
hook as MacNamara’s got. If Croogan and Pinky don’t like it, let ’em 
go out and git the same. Now,” addressing Bob, “for God’s sake, go, 
git busy !” 

It is not probable that this logic appealed to either Croogan and Scully 
or their supporters, but no one was rash enough to openly criticise it. 
There was, however, a general hurrah of approval from that portion of the 
crowd whose sympathies were with MacNamara, and a few more sarcastic 
remarks directed at all three of the participants in the contest. The 
German Band, discouraged by the lack of interest evidenced in its efforts 
and by the meagre receipts resulting from a canvass of the assemblage, 
had ceased to add that terror to the scene, and with the appearance of an 
added “cop” or two, the gathering resolved itself into a body patiently 
awaiting the outcome of the piscatorial “go.” A full half hour had elapsed 
since Fennessy had first signalled the men to throw their lines. The crowd 
had scattered itself about the wharf. Many, disregarding dirt and dust, 
had seated themselves in groups, shielded from the hot rays of the sun 
by umbrellas owned or borrowed for the time. Here and there a crap or 
card game, surreptitiously carried on, afforded some diversion to the 
players. Fennessy, with a few of his intimates took possession of the 
boards and barrels of the soft drink vender, who had gone in vain attempt 
to restock his stand, and with them formed a vantage point from which 
to watch the fishermen. The latter, who disdained to seek protection from 

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the sun, sat like statues — except when, now and then, one slapped at some 
too persistent fly, or cursed the heat, his luck and everything in general. 

Suddenly there was a shout. Croogan — in his excitement dropping his 
pipe in the water — seized his line with frantic grasp. Another gentle pull 
that told of venturing fish, and then a jerk; the dependable cord was 
hauled in — hand rapidly passing hand — until the fish was landed, directly 
in the face of Mike, the referee. It wasn’t much of a fish, as Bob 
remarked in response to the condolence of the men around. “If I’d 
knowd ’twas minners we was after,” he commented, “I’d brought er 
school along.” 

“It’s a fish, ain’t it,” said Croogan; “and dat spells cush, don’t it?” 
Then without further to-do he recast his line. Bob said no more. By 
reason of the extraordinary outfit he was called upon to handle, he was 
encountering trouble enough. But now — Croogan’s line scarce had 
touched the water — he was galvanized into unexpected and astonishing 
activity. A terrific tug, indicative of a monster of its kind ; another one, 
stronger even than the first, and Bob was on his feet, yelling, pulling, brac- 
ing himself for the final effort — an effort which, when made, resulted in 
nothing more nor less than the capture of a ten pound turtle — genus 
Chelonia — edible, unquestionably. A fish? Well — is there not much after 
all, occasionally in a name ? 

More shouts ; more hurrahs ; more laughter, and the entire crowd, which 
had remained hedged around them since Croogan’s lucky catch, strained 
and elbowed for a sight of MacNamara’s queer haul. With a face 
bearing the stamp of his intense surprise, Bob turned toward his antago- 
nists. 

“Mebbe dis spells cush, too — eh?” 

“Yes, and mebbe it don’t,” retorted Croogan. “When in hell’d turtles 
git to be fish?” This was a puzzler. MacNamara looked at Fennessy — 
Fennessy at his cronies, and they in turn at the crowd. “Get a dishinary,” 
somebody suggested. The referee started to nod approval of the idea 
when Croogan said: 


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“Dishinary er no dishinary, that turtle’s no fish. What’d yer do if yer 
kid went fer fish and brought this home ? Humph ! me on th’ Banks an’ 
not knowin’ th’ difference. I .” 

“You go, get busy — you fellers — all of you!” commanded Fennessy. 
“I’ll decide this when th’ time comes. Like’s not Mac will snag a 
whale next .” 

“If he does,” said Croogan, “it’ll go. A whale’s a fish,” and with this 
display of knowledge he returned to his interrupted task. Bob, alternately 
cursing and communing with himself, grew nervous. That Fennessy 
would stand for counting the turtle as a fish, he didn’t for a minute believe. 
What Anholt meant by his careful instructions, which had been conscien- 
tiously followed, he was totally unable to figure out. “And me,” he 
ruminated, “wid fifteen minutes only ter go. Sammy’s next, all right. 
I’m dippy, dat’s a certain.” 

Here, a boy, pushing his way through the compact mass of humanity, 
managed to reach the space occupied by the referee and principals. He 
carried a book ; bulky, well worn and evidently of ancient edition. With a 
look of conscious self-importance he placed it in Fennessy’s hands. The 
latter eyed it suspiciously, examined its outside critically ; then opened it 
and by dint of careful effort found the page he wanted. Then with an 
appearance of incredulity manifested in his face, and still staring at the 
definition, he mounted the box for the third time, deprived, by reason of 
the difficulty he encountered in handling the heavy volume, of the welcome 
protection of his umbrella. 

“I hold here in my hands,” he shouted, “Webster’s Unabridged 
Ditionary,* which as you all knows, is the only goods when it comes to 
dealin’ out straight dope about what’s what. Now, I look up turtle and 
what does it say ? ‘A turtle,’ it says, ‘is a bird’ — ‘a gall’ — what’n hell you 
all laffin’ about?” 

“Oh, Lord! — and me fishin’ fer birds in th’ East River!” exclaimed 
Bob. “Dat’s th’ limit, fer fair, Mike.” 


*Homewood Publishing Company, Chicago. Edition undated. 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Look here, Fennessy,” said Billy Summers, with a sympathetic air, 
“what you need is the water wagon and — rest. You’ll be makin’ that 
turtle into ham and eggs before you quit.” 

“Will you wise guys work to th’ rear until I’m through?” shouted the 
embarrassed referee. “That’s th’ first thing it says. Second, it says, ‘also 
the name given to the common tor’ — tort — t-o-r-t-o-i-s-e-. I’m spellin’ it 
so’s you’ll know. It’s a cinch,” he added, “it can’t be a fish because first 
this here book says it’s a bird and second it’s a tor-tortus.” 

“Supposin’ yer look fer dat turtus, Mike,” suggested MacNamara. 
“Mebbe it’ll turn out ter be er keg o’ lager ’r a jag.” 

“That’s the stuff, Fennessy,” said Summers, facetiously. “It’s a nice, 
cool, pleasant kind of day to chase that turtle through the book. Let’s 
hear how many kinds of things he is anyhow.” 

Ignoring the remarks of the would-be humorists around him, the 
referee continued turning the pages with his dripping hands, occasionally 
glancing at the definition just read, in order to keep the proper spelling in 
his mind. Finally he caught the word he sought. As before, he read it 
over to himself ; stared at it, and mopped his face with handkerchief 
clutched in one hand, while balancing the book in the other. 

“Never havin’ done no college stunts,” he began, “I’m likely to fall 
down on givin’ this right and proper. So askin’ your pardon in advance 
I’ll read what the ditionary says is a tortus. First, it says it’s ‘an animal 
with a shell,’ meanin’, I guess, a lobster; and down below it says it’s ‘a 
mil-i-tary defense used by the ancients.’ I ” 

“Is that all?” asked Summers. “I thought maybe it. was a battleship 
or the Seventh Regiment Band.” 

“Yes, that’s all !” roared Fennessy, stepping down. “What more do 
you want? A turtle is a bird and a tortus, and a tortus is an animal, and a 
fort, and a lobster — havin’ a shell on’t — or maybe it’s a crab, but it ain’t 
no fish, that’s a cinch.” 

“How do you know?” queried Summers. “Did you look animal up?” 

“Aw, let ’im go,” said Bob, reseating himself. “Don’t me finish come 
in less’n five minutes? Dat’s — Great Mother o’ Mary,” he shouted, 
grabbing at his line. “Here, you Mike — here — grab dis — what th’ — pull, 

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you geezer, pull — nab her — she’s goin’ — help, youse fellers — heave — dat’s 
th’ stuff — Oh! does I win — is th’ dough mine? Hey rube — you — 
Croogan !” 

Three fish lay on the wharf, and they were fish — about that there could 
be no sort of doubt. Salmon trout — all of them, and none would tip the 
scales at less than seven pounds — the last thing any man would expect 
to catch by hook and line, at such a place and on such a day as this. Less 
lively than one might have looked for, they yet had put to test the com- 
bined strength of three or four strong men to pull them in. It appeared, 
indeed, as if some venturesome school of fish had worked their way up to 
the dock and at the sight of Bob’s queer hook — or hooks — had jumped in 
unison to grab the bait. With electric speed, news of the phenomenal 
catch spread through the gathered multitude. Surging forward in one 
excited, shouting mob, they filled the space hitherto reserved for the 
contestants and Fennessy, who were in imminent danger of being pushed 
entirely over the wharf’s edge. Jumping upon the box, and steadied by 
the men surrounding him, Mike shouted — meanwhile holding one of the 
fish aloft — “Back up there, back up, you farmers! D’you want to drown 
the bunch ? Here’s one of ’em. Look at it, but stop your shovin’ — stop — 
what’n .” 

Fennessy had disappeared ; the box had ended its existence with a crash 
and to the music of some of the most lurid and picturesque oaths ever 
heard upon a spot where cursing had long been recognized as an art. 
MacNamara, grabbing the fish, threw them over the heads of the unreason- 
ing crowd to different points upon the wharf. The result was magical. 
Instantly the onslaught ceased and the rabble, turning, divided itself into 
three howling, fighting groups. A fish, snatched up by one, was as sud- 
denly grabbed from his hands by another, who in turn — obliged to defend 
himself against overwhelming odds — surrendered the prize to a third. 
The women, hitherto without direct interest in the proceedings, now came 
into their own. The spirit of the bargain counter came to life. Regard- 
less of damage done to dress, or hat, or shoes, each fought, and shrieked, 
and trampled on the other, as if beyond all other things that heart could 
crave, the owning of that fish stood paramount. Here and there some 

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perspiring policeman shoved his way into the mob, determined to put — by 
confiscation of the fish — an ending to the uproar. Then, as he neared his 
objective point, a sharper tussle than before — a cry, and the innocent cause 
of all the trouble was thrown to another spot, there to become the center 
of a still more noisy scramble. 

While all of this was going on, Fennessy stood the central figure in a 
group where hot spoken words so far had held the place of action. He 
had declared the contest ended two minutes after Bob had made his 
catch ; a decision which neither Croogan, Scully, nor their backers — ranged 
along beside them — would admit was just. 

“That won’t go for a minute, Mike,” said Jimmy O’Rourke, who stood to 
loose a not inconsequential sum. “Mac caught the fish and that’s dead 
sure, but he caught ’em too late. Your clock needs windin’ is all. Nobody 
here is askin’ favors, but we can’t stand for no throw-down like that.” 

“Look here, Jimmy !” replied Fennessy, “Your’re nix as a welcher. It 
ain’t your class of spiel. MacNamara wins, and that goes — so fergit it ! The 
winners can have their long green when they calls for it. I’m done,” and 
turning, he walked away accompanied by a number of his friends. 

Croogan, with an oath, addressed his henchmen : “What ! is yer goin’ 
to stand fer this holdup, without givin’ ’em no comeback? This faker,” 
he continued, advancing on MacNamara, “don’t make no such git-a-way 
like that .” 

“Mebbe yer t’ink ter put er stop on’t !” retorted Bob. 

“Oh, drop it, Croogan !” said O’Rourke. “I don’t like this hand Mike 
dealt us myself, but he’s the doctor and we got to stand fer it. It’s me 
fer the shade.” With which remark expressing his resignation he fol- 
lowed the example set by Fennessy. 

“Not on yer life, Jimmy!” shouted Croogan after him, encouraged by 
the mutterings and sympathetic attitude of the men around him. “We 
got ours handed us and here’s where we gives these stiffs what’s cornin’ 
to ’em. Get ’em, boys; give ’em hell!” Simultaneously with the cry he 
made a spring at MacNamara, while a half dozen others began a concerted 
attack on the few remaining adherents of Bob — the rest having either left 
the wharf altogether or mingled with the excited groups in warfare over 

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the disputed fish. The words and action of Croogan were not unexpected 
by either Bob or his friends, nor were they unwilling for the encounter. 
They knew nothing of that discretion which has been defined as the better 
part of valor, but they all were graduates of a school that makes the 
turning of one’s back the one unpardonable offense. MacNamara, in 
dodging, caught the blow of Croogan on his arm, stumbling at the same 
time to the floor. Like a flash, the other — hand encirc’ed with brass 
knuckles — was upon him. Bob, glancing at his followers, realized that 
struggling as they were, he could expect no assistance from that source. 
With a quick movement he caught the wrist of his antagonist — a twist — 
a trick, well learned — a supreme effort and his disgruntled adversary, 
gasping under the pressure of MacNamara’s fingers about his throat, lay 
like a frightened animal, awaiting opportunity to escape. 

“Aw ! yer dirty cur,” Bob shouted at him, meanwhile tightening his hold ; 
“I oughter choke yer, dat’s .” 

“Hey, Mac ! — lookout — dodge !” and with a quick glance upward he 
discovered the lithe, wiry form of Scully — opened knife in hand — pre- 
paring to jump at his back. Before he could move the fellow was upon 
him ; then, up went his hand, staying — in the nick of time — the downward 
progress of the blade. With his other hand, now loosened from the 
throat of Croogan, he reached around, caught Scully by the leg, and with 
apparently miraculous strength, born of his desperate situation, struggled 
to his feet. Before the half unconscious figure at his feet could take 
advantage of the opportunity presented to pull him down again, Bob 
stepped beyond his reach. Again a startling cry — “Skidoo, the cops !” 
and the other combatants in the fray, with a rapidity inconceivable to 
one who missed the sight, became, instead of battling enemies, seemingly 
friendly, if somewhat bruised and bleeding, spectators of the fight 
MacNamara was putting up. The latter, burdened with the struggling, 
murderous thug upon his back, failed to observe the six approaching 
blue-coats — part of the reserve. With a movement so quick as to be 
almost imperceptible, his hand shot from Scully’s leg and caught the free 
hand jabbing at his face. Now he held both wrists firmly in his grasp. 
He glanced at Croogan and saw him, in fear of the nearing officers, replace 

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a murderous looking knife within his clothes. He staggered under his 
burden to the wharf’s edge, steadied himself, and then, with a marvelous 
display of muscular power — a feat that to this day is talked about by 
those who saw it done — bent himself forward with an action so unexpected 
and rapid as to cause Scully, unable to save himself, to shoot forward with 
an impetus sending him over the pile-work into the waters far below. 
Scarce had the “plunk” telling of his late assailant’s dive reached 
MacNamara’s ears, when a heavy hand placed on his shoulder advised him 
of the immediate presence of the police. At the same time Croogan, with 
a face convulsed with sudden terror, cried out: 

“Oh! fer the sake of God — Pinky’s done, and wi’d me money, too. 
Save im, somebody, can’t yer — what in hell yer doin’ ? I tell yer he can’t 
swim.” 

“Aw, what’s eatin’ yer?” said Bob. “Him on th’ Banks and not wise 
ter th’ wet .” 

“I tell yer,” wailed Croogan, “Pinky’s gone. He can’t swim no more’n 
he kin fly.” 

“Den it’s up ter me!” Like a flash MacNamara whirled around; 
whipped his fist straight to the chin of the officer at his left and before 
the latter, with a groan that told of seeing starry skies, had touched the 
floor, his prisoner had leaped across the wharf, hesitated only long enough 
to mark the spot where Scully sank, and then — dived to save the man who 
a minute earlier had threatened him with death. 

* * * * * * 

“My friend,” remarked the Rev Melville Storey, after Anholt, extended 
comfortably on a leather couch in the minister’s library, had finished his 
recital of the day’s developments ; “in the advocacy of a worthy cause, the 
spectacular, I have observed, becomes a most formidable antagonist; its 
mission being, apparently, not so much the opposing of the object one has 
in view, as the bringing about of complications rendering the situation 
more deplorable than it was before. As a scenic display, your creation 
today reflects credit on your ingenuity. As a proof of your good inten- 
tions, it is indisputable. As a manifestation of ordinary common sense in 

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view of the present predicament of MacNamara, and considering the 
narrow margin by which he escaped becoming the murderer of that fellow 
Scully — well, I should say, the available evidence is, to put it mildly, 
of a somewhat non-conclusive kind.” 

“And as to the money won — the ethics, you understand, of using it in 
Bob’s behalf?” 

“Friend Anholt, is a reply needed?” and the big fellow continued gazing 
at the fire, while the other, sighing, closed his eyes — and thought. 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER X. 

“There’s one thing certain,” remarked Dixon to Anholt the next morn- 
ing, with a final glance at the illustration in the paper he was holding, 
“MacNamara’s furnishing this office a corking lot of doubtful advertising.” 

“Yes, I think we’d better let him go,” replied the other indifferently. 

“I don’t mean that, exactly ; if you think he’ll straighten out — but you 
know how Carter is ” 

“Yes, I know,” said Anholt. “It’s that reason, among others, inducing 
my favoring getting another man for Bob’s work. I’m not at all discour- 
aged, understand ; but as a matter of fact I imagine he can do better by 
leaving us — to tell the truth, I’m sure of it.” 

“I don’t see how you figure that out. We’ve been pretty decent to him,” 
returned the firm’s active head, rising. “Do as you like, though ; only 
keep your eyes on him wherever he goes.” 

With an acquiescent nod from his manager, Dixon entered his private 
office, closed the door, and presumably dispatched all further thought of 
the matter from his mind. Anholt, looking around, discovered Miss Von 
Bonhorst eyeing him with a quizzical air. 

“Oh, I know !” he exclaimed, as if endeavoring to anticipate her words. 
“The papers are full of it. Salmon trout are so numerous in the East 
River they’re impeding navigation, and MacNamara, their discoverer, is 
on the list for a Carnegie medal — even,” he added, “if he is in jail.” 

“But he isn’t” she replied. “He’s been bailed out and is scrubbing out 
the flat the Fitzgeralds vacated Saturday.” 

“Well, that’s a little better,” he said, curtly. Then to himself: “Dear, 
brave Bob! There’s more of real nobility in you than half the sleek and 
smooth-tongued hypocrites that preach Christ’s law possess.” 

The woman still regarded him with a half questioning, half pensive look. 
“Mr. Anholt,” she said, “don’t you know you can’t fool me a bit? You’re 
as pleased over Bob’s performance as a mother over her babe’s first tooth. 

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I really do believe if it hadn’t been for you he never would have caught 
those fish at all.” 

“Your estimate is more flattering than logical,” he replied. “Please 
remember I’m neither a magician nor possessed of superhuman powers.” 

“Oh, if you only wouldn’t try to appear the cynic so!” she answered, 
leaning toward him with an imploring manner. “When I think how kind 
you are, and how much good you do, and — what you’ve done for me ” 

“Please do me one real favor,” he exclaimed with an appearance of 
irritation, “and don’t make reference to that last again. I deserve as much 
credit for anything I’ve done as a hungry dog does for grabbing at a bone. 
The more I figure it out” — with a savage jab of his pen — “the less I think 
I’m worth my salt.” 

“It’s your heart,” she responded softly. “It’s so much larger than your 
means, and that,” she continued with a scarcely audible sigh, “so often 
leads to danger.” 

He gazed reflectively at the inkwell before him. “I suppose — I almost 
fear,” he returned in low and measured words, “‘you’re more than half 
way to the truth. Lucky Hope !” he added as if to himself, and resumed 
his writing with an air precluding further words. 

In himself, Anholt found a subject for disquieting doubt. Behind the 
veneer of a brilliant personality he recognized the inherent weaknesses of 
his nature. With motives exempt from any element of personal gain ; 
with ends in view that in themselves must operate toward the welfare of 
the ones he chose to serve, he acted under impulses chafing at delay, and 
in his progress to the goal frequently spread the seeds resulting in a harvest 
of dark penalties for himself. In subordinating the means to the ends, 
the finale frequently showed his course as giving birth to evils more men- 
acing than the danger he had striven to remove. With a near approach to 
rashness he attacked the spectre of other men’s misfortunes, usually 
with promises of substantial aid, and more loyal to their interests than to 
his own, incurred a steadily increasing load of obligations for monetary 
advances made him and used in their behalf. Nor did the least of the 
perils threatening him lie in his anxiety and determination to repay these 
loans promptly on the day of their maturity. In this honesty of purpose 

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lay the opportunity for the most dangerous factors in the makeup of the 
man to play their part. Once possessed of a fortune accumulated with a 
speed exceeded only by the rapidity with which it had been lost; once the 
subject of experience proving the safety and permanency of one’s resources 
dependent largely on the method of their acquisition; once the victim of 
an evanescent prosperity built upon fallacious grounds, the man had still 
to fight the germ of a disease that, lying dormant in his breast, required 
alone the pressure of financial need to rouse it into life. Like a good ship 
bound with its precious cargo for a famine-stricken port, and under 
incompetent command about to run upon the shoals when the voyage 
seemed complete, Anholt found himself verging to the shore that both 
Hope, his friend, and his own experience had warned him most to fear. 
Still denied the comfort and restraining counsel of a wife whose coming, 
sickness had from time to time delayed, he retained the funds received 
from Hope, and more than once had ventured part in some small real 
estate transaction promising quick results — transactions, too many of 
which were due to his utilization of confidential information passing 
through his hands, and resulting frequently in the loss of profits by a client 
— through the latter’s ignorance of the truth — in order that Anholt 
himself might make a little gain ; transactions that were ethically unsound, 
however far they may have been within the law ; transactions which neither 
Stanley Hope nor any honest man would care to have his name associated 
with, regardless of the ends to be accomplished through the money made. 
And with it all the man found that the profits realized were too inadequate 
for a thorough test of the policy he had planned. The well of human 
woes is deep and the ripples from a few crumbs cast here and there at 
random count but little in the depths below. And thus it was that Anholt, 
stirred by the silent appeal of a world he knew so well; limited in his 
activities in its behalf by reason of his restricted means; taught by per- 
sonal experience the possibility of fortunes rapidly acquired, and ever 
watchful of the end with too little consideration for the methods used, had 
right good cause for anxious thoughts. To reach by slow and cautious 
steps the vantage ground of a secure and ample competence — a point 
from which, like Stanley Hope, he could wage his philanthropical 

[ 102 ] 


cam- 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


paign without regard to cost — was to him a process intolerable. Gener- 
ous, unselfish and impulsive, he was ever adding to his own great burden 
while lifting the load from another’s back. And of all men he alone had 
full cognizance of the hazard of his course. 

As the hours wore on his normal and more cheerful spirit put to rout 
the sober, analytical mood that signalized his introduction to the day; 
and if, at noon, when the clerks had gone to luncheon, his voice was low 
in conversation with a sturdy, sun-browned individual seated near his 
desk, the sparkle of his eyes and the shaking of his body in merriment 
only partially suppressed, gave ample evidence of his temporary exemp- 
tion from both presentiments and fears. Shortly after the last clerk had 
passed through the corridor into the street, another figure entered, walked 
toward the railing, paused, and hat in hand waited for Anholt’s recog- 
nition. 

'‘Hello, Bob !” rang out the cheery voice. “Come in ! Above all men 
you’re the one I want to see just now.” 

“Tanks, Boss! Yer see,” as he opened the gate and approached the 
seated men, “I says ter meself it’s about time dat ” 

“Look here. Bob,” x\nholt interrupted, stretching out his hand and 
touching the other’s arm as if to restrain him from further speech, “I want 
you to do me just one favor now. Listen to what I’m going to say, do 
what I ask you, and then get out without a word. Is it a go?” 

“Dat’s me, Boss. I’m listenin’.” 

“Good ! Now to business. In this envelope, Bob” — thrusting a bulky 
parcel in the young fellow’s hand — “is exactly four hundred and eighty 
dollars — winnings on the deal you put through yesterday. To this gen- 
tleman” — motioning to the broad-chested man in the chair — “you are 
indebted fifty dollars for substantial services rendered, and seven more 
for live and active salmon trout furnished on your account. I wish you’d 
pay him now. Gentlemen, shake hands. Mr. MacNamara, this is Mr. Bau- 
man, my friend, and the best-known diver on the Atlantic coast.” 

Bob paid the bill, then looked at Anholt. “Boss, kin I spiel fer jist a 
minute ?” 


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“Not a word. Bob,” and he raised a warning finger. “Along this line 
I want you now and ever after to keep a silent head. Now, lad if that 
cigar stand still remains for sale, go out and buy it quick. Then come 
and see me Sunday. You’ve wisdom far beyond your years. I shan’t 
say any more, except” — he stood up and seizing the other firmly by the 
hand, looked him squarely in the eyes — “except, my boy, I trust you.” 

Something warm and moist fell on Anholt’s wrist. A sound, sus- 
piciously like a sob, reached his ear. Then he turned to his chair. Bob, 
faithful to his promise, left them both without a word. 

That evening Anholt sat in his favorite restaurant slowly munching a 
roll. “I think,” he observed to himself, “since I can’t have any George 
Goulet, I’ll try a little Cliquot in honor of Bob’s evolution into a man of 
affairs.” Two minutes later the decision was recalled. Glancing down 
the page of the evening paper propped up against the sugar bowl, his 
eyes fell upon the following bit of philosophy : 

“Noways you take it does it pay to bet your wad. If the chances are 
ag’in you, you’re a sucker. If they’re hoss and hoss, you’re jist an 
ordinary fool. If you’ve got a dead sure thing, then you’re a low-down, 
onery thief, and that’s all there is about it.” 


I 104 | 


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CHAPTER XI. 

Anholt, attired in a comfortable if somewhat startling hued suit 
of soft pajamas, had finished his letter. With a smothered impre- 
cation induced by the discomfort of a torrid night, he reached toward 
the gas-jet, utilized the flame as a lighter for his half consumed cigar, 
then turned it out, rested his slippered extremities on the window-sill, 
and with a chuckle of self-satisfaction lost himself in reverie. In 
the vernacular of the day, he had “hit it right.” Less than a month 
before some client of his house, in need of ready cash, had offered for 
sale a small, triangular piece of land located in a thriving business 
section of the Borough of the Bronx. This plot of ground, less than 
five feet each on base and sides, had been part and parcel of a goodly 
sized lot condemned by law to confiscation for the purpose of wid- 
ening the adjacent thoroughfare. Too small for any business pur- 
pose that would justify the payment of anything more than a nominal 
rent, it had proved an unwieldly, albeit small, white elephant on its 
owner’s hands. The mind of Anholt — omnivorous reader that he 
was — had reverted like a flash to a practically forgotten ordinance 
yet in force. With small ado he made an offer on his own behalf; 
received a prompt acceptance, and for a trivial sum, became the 
owner of the plat. 

“I figure now,” he had said, replying to Dixon’s slightly caustic 
comment on the transaction, “that in real estate as in most other 
things, one’s opportunities increase in scope with his knowledge of 
his trade. You say I’ve tied my money up in something less than 
twelve square feet of ground. Please recall that side-walks there 
are exactly twelve feet wide, and that by law I have the right to 
excavate quite even with the curb. If my arithmetic is right, and 
based upon the outline of this bit of land, I’ve got with entrance 
space deducted, about three hundred feet of rentable, good paying 
earth.” Five minutes later he paused in his inspection of the balance 
sheet before him. “I wonder,” he reflected, “if Dixon thinks — I 

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wonder if I should have put him wise, and given him, as my employer, 
another chance to take that offer up himself.” 

Today, the firm had taken the property off his hands, and if, after 
seriously considering the ethics of his course, his mental equipoise 
seemed just a bit disturbed, he found no small degree of solace in the 
profit realized. 

And now another matter, predestined to eventuate in a grave crisis 
in his life, had beckoned him with tempter’s hand, and with glittering 
possibilities held up in vivid contrast to the unsatisfactory now, had 
compelled his serious consideration of its claims — a condition of his 
mind, on which you or I who know the man, could safely base our 
prophesy of his eventual surrender. 

In the waters of the Caribbean Sea, and scattered here and there 
amidst the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean lie islands destitute of 
vegetable life. Rich in phosphates, and in guano deposited 
through centuries of sea birds’ habitation, they remain vast ware- 
houses of untold wealth — the reserve stores of nature, held against 
the time when man’s onward rush shall have robbed the soil of life. 
Unto this day but few of these islands — and those far down along 
the wild Peruvian coast — have yielded any portion of their fabulous 
resources to the growing demands of honest trade. Nor yet has the 
unsalable appetite of our modern commercialism’s thick skinned 
vampires been tempted by the gold encrusted opportunity presented 
by this wonderful mint, inexhaustible as it would seem to be. In 
the middle of the nineteenth century, under the first “Guano Laws” 
enacted by the American Congress, provision was made whereby 
American citizens, importing this article into ports of the United 
States, in vessels flying the Stars and Stripes, would be granted pro- 
tection by the government in working the deposits — providing also, 
among other conditions, that only the discoverer of the islands, his 
heirs or assigns, working under a bond filed with the State Depart- 
ment, should be the subjects of this government’s particular solici- 
tude. Revised and amended as these laws have been, from time to 
time, they remain to all intents and purposes the same as when first 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


passed. Romance upon romance, embodying all the elements of 
tragedy, comedy and melodrama, might well be woven around the 
history of these islands since that time. The archives of the State 
Department and the files of newspapers for a full half century or 
more teem with data of the kind. As time progressed, the owner- 
ship — so called — of the guano rights, descended from the many to 
the few. Here and there an individual, for lack of means, unable 
either to work his grant or to successfully contest another’s claims, 
sold out his interests to some small corporation controlling other 
rights, and the latter in its turn, released its holdings to a centralized 
and dominant control. In time, this organization, richer in assur- 
ance than in cash, became defunct; its charter lapsed; some one stock- 
holder, more provident than the others, appropriated to himself such 
assets as it had, and thus we see the richest single industry in all 
the great, wide world, tied up in some few descendants’ hands; or, 
if not totally within their ownership, at least so placed as to require 
the conjoined efforts of our State officials and skilled interpreters of 
international law to find just where clear title to the grants is vested. 

And now by reason of the strange fatality which mocked and 
humored Anholt at its will, we find him holding by right of option 
the key to full possession of this wealth. Brought by the merest 
accident in personal touch with the representative of the — assumed- 
surviving heirs, and impressing him by the force of a personality 
that inspired all men with confidence and regard, he learned in confi- 
dence the salient points on which to base his campaign for the acqui- 
sition of whatever rights the other’s principals possessed. Tonight, 
through the agency of his profits derived from disposing of his prop- 
erty in the Bronx, he owned beyond all possibility of recall a four 
months’ option on these islands in the seas. 

Such, then, was the situation holding his mind in bond tonight and 
furnishing cause for fancy’s wild, fantastic flights. 

“If I can float this thing” — communing with himself. “If I can 
ever make this go, I’ll show this world a species of philanthropy that 
will cause a big revision in man’s estimate of man. Maybe Storey, 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


Bishop and myself won’t test our theories in a way to make the gods 
sit up and listen ! And there’s Dorothy — blessed little one ! George, 
how I wish I had her here tonight!” Lowering his feet, he stood up; 
took her picture from the wall as he had done night after night since 
first he placed it there; gazed upon it — in the light reflected from the 
starry sky; kissed it with a passion telling more than any words of 
a love so infinitely great as to render infinitesimal, by comparison, the 
frailties and strange ambitions of his mind. 

“If ever we get up again, we’ll stay there dear; and when you’ve 
reached my side, we’ll never, never in the life God gives us time to 
love, be found apart again. Oh, Dorothy ! Dorothy — my own — my 
darling wife!” he continued in a voice broken with the strong emo- 
tion urging him to speak. “Don’t you know I need you — need you 
now? Who but you can understand? Who but you can guide, and 
counsel and protect me now? How long — Oh God — must I contend 
alone against temptations ; against blackmailing curs ; against con- 
certed action by the powers of Hell? What — who is there can tell 
me — have I done, deserving the vengeance of a just, forgiving Christ?” 
He flung the burning stub of his cigar far into the street. “Oh, 
Bah!” he cried; “Justice or forgiveness — where can they be found in 
Christ or man?” He paced the room with rapid strides. “I don’t 
believe” — muttering and striking in the air with his clenched hands — 
“I don’t believe a good Christ ever lived ; I don’t believe that mercy 
ever strayed a meter from the throne of God — God — I don’t believe 
in God ! I don’t believe that any decent trait ascribed to Heaven, or 
its church, or its white faced sycophants, ever found abiding place 
with or near the lot of them! I don’t believe a man can find any- 
where, unless it be in the under world, an ounce of sympathy, or 
friends, or help! I don’t ” 

He had stopped suddenly — his hands dropping by his side. Bend- 
ing over he picked up the photograph of his wife — his face relaxing 
in a faint and contemptuous smile. 

“You simpering idiot!” he muttered. “You renegade! to talk like 
that, and then dare to rest your eyes upon the picture of her face; 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


upon the image of the best, and purest, and divine in life! You, 
thriving on the charity of a friend as true as Hope! You, the right 
hand man of Storey, disciple of the living Christ; of Bishop, an angel 
in disguise; alleged equal of all the men who shake your hand and 
pride themselves on being styled your friends! You, who presume 
to extend the hand of succor to men in want, quoting the words of 
Jesus Christ as authority for your acts, and then deny His being in 
your heart !” He walked to the window, and stood, staring into the night. 
Then he stepped backward and dropped into his chair. “Anholt — 
Van” — the words were low, softly uttered — “You’ve emptied life’s 
cup of bitterness to the dregs. You can’t forget the taste, boy, 
if you keep the glass before you. There are richer, sweeter, purer 
drafts, my lad — drafts fragrant with the bouquet of happy memories, 
of kindly acts performed at needed times, of whole-souled confidence 
in fellowmen, of firm adherence to the ways of Christ, of love, of 
honor, of well earned and deserved peace. Keep that glass before 
you. Drink it often — drink it deep. It’s the only tonic in all the 
world that makes life worth living to the end.” 


I HK> I 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER XII. 

The Rev. Melville Storey gazed with inquiring eyes at the hesitating, 
quietly gowned woman seated on the opposite side of the gold embellished 
table — a table, which as an exquisite example of the cabinet maker’s art 
possessed a corroborated history antedating the French Revolution. The 
white glare of the noonday sun, in its passage through the art glass win- 
dow panes, became transformed into a subdued and mellow light, which 
left the features of both man and woman quite distinct, but — in the 
absence of shadows and sharp outlines born of rays more luminous — 
deprived each of opportunity to analyze the other’s thoughts as recorded 
in the more subtle changes of the countenance. In the quiet atmosphere ; 
in the calm and reassuring manner of the man, and in the knowledge of 
his supreme indifference to whatever strictures sycophantic adherents to 
convention’s narrow code might make, the woman felt inspired to renewed 
confidence in the outcome of her call. With her gloved and shapely arms 
extended on the table’s top, with fingers lightly clasped, and with eyes in 
which entreaty and earnestness were suggestive of the thoughts that lay 
behind, she addressed the minister in a voice so low, so pathetically sweet, 
as to make it seem an integral part of the scheme of harmony dominating 
the room by its gentle, peace compelling spell. 

“I don’t know what you think of me,” she began with lowered eyes, “or 
if my coming to you here might compromise you in the eyes of friends, 
but when I’ve told you all, I hope — I know you’ll believe I did it for the 
best.” 

“Pardon me, Miss Von Bonhorst, but I think I’ve guessed your mission 
now.” The deep full tones appeared to fill the room with one vibrating 
sweep of sound. “Our friend’s abhorrence of the confessional necessi- 
tates the rehearsal of his sins by proxy. Even proxies though, if I am 
not incorrect, must submit unquestionable authority for their acts.” 

“Please don’t hurt me with such words as those. I’m here on his 
account — unknown to him, ’tis true, but I came that you might know the 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


trials he’s subject to — in order that with such knowledge you can better 
help and guide him on his way.” 

“My dear friend — I call you that in deference to the part you try to 
play in Anholt’s life ; the last thing I should want to hear or pass opinion 
on would be the faults or weakness of a friend, unless he came to me 
direct, as man to man, and made disclosure of his soul’s great need. I’ve 
long disclaimed intention of working along the lines of canonical obedi- 
ence, but, as with the church I served, I hold the confessionary exists 
alone upon the throne of God and nowhere on this earth.” 

“Mr. Storey” — the face now wore a firm determined look; “you are 
bound to cut me off, but you must hear what I have come to say. As 
for my relating Mr. Anholt’s sins, I don’t believe he ever did a willful 
wrong in all his life. He’s made mistakes, and because of them he’s 
kicked back every time he has a chance to rise. If another man can make 
a dollar he’s credited with being an able business man. If Mr. Anholt 
tries to do the same, they call his act sharp practice. Last week I over- 
heard Mr. Dixon express the hope that Mr. Anholt might in time become 
a member of the firm, and now today, because he made a little profit on 
a piece of land, Mr. Carter says they must drop all further idea of it.” 

“I think,” said Storey, “I understand the transaction you make refer- 
ence to. I must say that I feel our friend was wrong. I am quite confi- 
dent he feels that way himself.” 

“He did what any other good business man would have done,” she 
retorted, warmly. “More than that, Mr. Carter had the property offered 
him before and wouldn’t even listen to the man when he came this time 
to see him. Oh ! I wish you could see just half of what he is called upon 
to stand. Young fellows with hang-dog faces come in, and stop him on 
the street, and every time his hand goes in his pocket, until I wonder he 
has a penny left. And half of them are thieves who ought to be in prison, 
but he thinks he’s got to give them something to prevent them publishing 
his shame. And anonymous notes and threats, and all because he’s trying 
to do right and struggles to make a success instead of a failure of his 
life. I wonder that he don’t break down or turn to crime and deserve the 
trouble he’s got to shoulder anyhow. Instead of that he grits his teeth 

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and tries to smile, and makes a brave endeavor to keep the fight he’s mak- 
ing day by day from being known to others.” 

Storey raised his hand. “In you,” he said, “our friend has found a 
loyal, able, and I may safely add, a most observing champion. But Anholt 
needs no pleader here. It’s because I understand him more than you can 
ever guess ; because I know his weakness and his strength ; because I’ve fol- 
lowed with painstaking care his heroic and self-sacrificing course ; because 
I’ve seen, time and again, his time and energy and means, with neither 
thought of recognition nor reward, lift up and save some poor, deserving 
devil from eternal ruin — because these things have come to me I need 
no eulogy of our friend; because of them he stands to me as one of the 
bravest characters I’ve ever met. I love him more than I ever could a 
brother of the blood. I regard him with a deeper feeling of respect than I 
ever dreamed of showing mortal man. Even more, I expect to see the 
day when I shall follow him like student to the sage, into the way that 
leads to man’s clearer understanding and closer relationship to his fellow 
man. I am fully conscious of the cause that brings you here today with 
anxious heart and mien. Our friend fights not alone against his past 
with all of its memories and resultant woes. He’s entered into contest with 
himself. He wages combat with ambitions seeking vast results in time 
unreasonably and admittedly brief. He carries in his breast convictions 
strong and true, and yearns for the time when he shall give the world 
a great and universal truth. I sometimes think his character too complex 
for ordinary man to grasp, and yet, I know if he conquers his weaknesses 
in time, he will develop into one of the strongest characters of our age. 
But neither you nor I can plan with intelligence and skill the route that 
he must travel now. Somehow I seem to feel a vague assurance that he 
will work his own salvation out. Let us help him where we can. Let us 
trust him, nothwithstanding the evidence of his transgressions be as clear 
as day, and by such confidence prove clear title to our claims to be his 
friends.” 

When Storey paused, the woman’s eyes were moist. For full five 
minutes she sat without a word, alternately biting her lips and pulling 
at the loosened fingers of her gloves. At last she raised her head and 

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gazed at the minister as if she would search the innermost recesses of his 
mind. Then she spoke : 

“Mr. Storey, I too, in turn, will call you friend because of your relations 
to the man who has done so much for me. But just because I owe him 
what I do, I feel I must dispute the wisdom of what you say. You, and 
Mr. Hope and all the rest seem to think that all he needs is financial help, 
or companionship and sugar coated words. You claim to be his friends, 
and yet, at the time he totters on the line dividing safety from irreparable 
ruin, you calmly shut your eyes and confide him to his luck. Oh! that 
I were a man with chance and right to speak. What he needs is one good, 
loyal and restraining hand, and yet you all sit back and think your 
confidence in him will save the day. You’re all afraid of hurting his feel- 
ings by advice, and just because of that, he’s got to grope along his way 
in darkness and alone. I tell you it’s wrong. If I were you I’d rather 
drive him by physical force along the proper course, if moral suasion 
wouldn’t do, than chance the danger of his going wrong.” 

“And yet,” remarked Storey, in a lower voice than he had used before, 
“I recall your disavowing a belief that such a contingency could ever 
come to pass.” 

“It isn’t that,” she replied. “Oh! why will you persist in misunder- 
standing what I say? He wouldn’t knowingly do a wrongful act, but just 
as in this fertilizer deal he’s going into now, he’ll risk his last cent, and 
when his enthusiasm grows he’ll ask one friend and then another to put 
money in the venture and imagine he’s doing them all a favor. Then if some- 
thing happens; if the ship they’re sending out for samples don’t return, 
or if the quality of the article don’t do, they’ll hold him responsible, and 
when they’ve raked up the mistakes he did make, and all that have been 
charged against him that he never knew a thing about, he’ll be set down 
as a rogue and be worse off than he was before. I don’t say the trans- 
action isn’t honest, for it is, and any other man could take it up and if it 
failed nothing would be said. But because it’s Mr.Anholt, and because they 
like to kick the under dog, the whole thing will be called a swindle, notwith- 
standing he’ll be the only one beggared by the loss. Oh ! Mr. Storey, for 
his sake — for the sake of that dear wife of his who is to join him now 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


so soon, won’t you try to hold him back? He’s getting along so well in 
many ways despite all he’s got to stand. Can’t you keep him in this 
course until he gets real solid on his feet? Ask him, won’t you, to go 
slow ?” 

The dark, penetrating eyes fastened with imploring look on the big 
man’s face, stirred him with a feeling not akin to anything experienced 
in his life before. For the first time in his career, so far as recollection 
went, the words and presence of a woman made him both uncomfortable 
and alert. 

“Miss Von Bonhorst,” he replied slowly, “If woman’s native tendency 
to disregard consistency is occasionally manifest in your words, there is 
yet so much apparent truth in all that you have said that I hesitate to 
comment or give answer to it now. But you’re such a splendid pleader,” 
he added, “why not become a party to this rescue work yourself ?” 

The mounting of rich color to her cheeks was visible to the man, even 
in the chastened light that filled the room. She arose and for a moment 
stood with eyes downcast. Then, lifting and directing them straight at 
him she answered in a steady voice : 

“I cannot;” adding as she walked towards the hall, “but — will you?” 

With his reply he knew the interview would end. The courtly grace 
that distinguished his movements — tall and heavy as he was — was observ- 
able now, as he bowed her to the door. In a voice entirely different from 
any she had ever heard him use before, he said simply : 

“I’ll try. I’ll do the best I can.” 


[ 114 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Having returned the folio to its place among the miscellaneous col- 
lection of songs and instrumental selections carefully arranged in a 
cabinet of Vernis Martin finish, Anholt leaned over and kissed the full, 
white forehead of the upturned face before him — kissed it with a touch 
warm and gentle ; like unto some caressing zephyr born of man’s first 
meeting with the God of Love, and doomed to linger only while the 
springtime of his passion reigns. 

“Ah! dearest” — his fingers were smoothing back the mass of dark 
brown hair — “that voice — that song — those minor chords, reminding one 
of days in Wales. What memories they recall of Welsh melody and life; 
of Tintern Abbey with its dark hued rooks and silver moonbeams playing 
through the vines; of Monmouth, and of nature’s frowning parapets 
along the valley of the Wye. How often in the weary, silent, dragging 
hours, their memory appeared to penetrate the gloom like some bright 
ray of sunshine from above. And now I have you, love, again. Inspira- 
tion grows and peace regains its throne; and recollections fadeth in the 
light of present happiness. “I wonder now,” he continued, seating him- 
self beside her on the piano stool — “I wonder if, way down within your 
heart of hearts, the germ of your old love for me survives — if by my 
life’s devotion, dear, it can be nourished into being and made to bloom 
again ; or if” — his arms encircled her and drew her to his breast — “in that 
divine forgiveness enabling you to overlook my sins, you have tendered 
me all that I can ever hope to get.” 

Her head was raised — a love light shining in her eyes — a light that only 
Anholt, blinded by exaggerated visions of his folly, ever would have 
misconstrued. 

“Dearest Van,” she said ; “of forgiveness on my part there is no need, 
for if you sinned it was because of your affection felt for me; and 
that, dear, is the one great thing that means the binding in the coils of love, 
the woman to the man. You might have found — you could have found,” 
she added thoughtfully, “a better way out of the trouble we were in, 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


and saved yourself much suffering and pain. But there now, dear” — pat- 
ting him lightly on the shoulder — “I mustn’t talk like that. We’re going 
to forget it now and do no wrong again ; and — as the story books would 
say, ‘be happy ever after,’ aren’t we, dear?” She placed her arms about 
his neck, murmuring, “Kiss me, dearest — won’t you, please?” Through 
the agency of love — dominant factor in the universal scheme — Anholt had 
come into his own. 

Once, when discussing the question of woman’s rights with some 
fellow members of the League, he had expressed an inclination to believe 
that Providence, when Eve was punished for her sin, had made a mental 
reservation to someday present a perfect woman to the world. “Elimi- 
nating, for obvious reasons,” he had said, “mention of her who gave birth 
to our Christ, I half believe that when the time marking the redemption 
of this promise neared, a determination came to emphasize Divinity’s 
recognition of the feminine virtues by creating three pure women instead 
of one, to exemplify the perfect type. Why the great distinction was 
conferred on me, of being given, by near relationship, the privilege to 
protect all three, I cannot tell ; but if you who scoff at women, and as an 
object lesson hold an apple to my eyes, will take it on yourselves to some- 
time visit me at home, I’ll introduce you to the three — my wife, my 
mother, and my sister, boys. God grant that I may live to praise them all 
for many years to come !” 

And now one of the three was in his arms. Releasing his hold, he 
stood up, offered her his hand, and led her to a seat more comfortable 
across the room. They were in their home — not large, nor yet so costly 
as the man himself had wished — but still their own, in which to live along 
the lines that duty or their inclinations chanced to run. And this dear 
little woman, whose stature stood in strange contrast against that of the 
husband by her side, was mistress of it all. This high browed, sweet- faced 
girl, with dark and luminous eyes — honest mirrors of her pure, unsullied 
soul, now reigned a queen, e’en though possessed of but one subject to 
command. This wife, with courage proved through trials such as start 
strong men astray, was now to offer in her love, the one resistless weapon 
bound in time to help her husband to his goal. 

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Above the sofa an etching hung — presented Anholt by an artist member 
of the League. About to comment on an incident that first inspired the 
work, his words were interrupted by a violent ringing of the corridor 
bell — the familiar, annoying sound, inseparable from apartment life. 
With a bound he started for the door. 

“Storey, for a dollar !” he cried. “Or Bishop, or maybe Bob — he’s com- 
ing up. You’ll like him, too.” By this time he had turned into the hall. 
Dorothy heard him throw the latch ; then give a sharp exclamation of sur- 
prise, followed by angry expostulation. She detected — she thought — the 
sound of a coarse, gruff voice, rising at times above her husband’s words ; 
then, something — was it a scuffle ? — and Anholt backed into the room fol- 
lowed by two men — men whom the reader, had he been there, would 
at once have recognized as Essingham, of the police department, and Mr. 
Samuel Withers, of the League. Before opening was given either one 
of them to speak, the husband turned to Dorothy, who stood with pale 
face and questioning eyes, clutching at the sofa’s back. 

“Dorothy, dear,” he said, “would you leave me with these — gentlemen, 
for just a little while? — a little business matter, you know — is all.” 

She glanced from his face to them, then back again. Walking to his 
side she made reply: 

“I think, Van, I’d better stay. I don’t believe with your experience with 
that man” — pointing at the officer — “you have anything to face but trouble, 
now.” 

“You’re dead right there, little girlie,” broke in Essingham, who stood 
near the door as if to prevent the husband’s egress. “This guy of yours 
has been huntin’ his now long enough. It’s up state for him now, good 
and plenty.” 

Dorothy, stunned by the words, and despite her brave assurance of a 
moment since, staggered as if about to fall. Recovering, she clasped her 
hands and gazed imploringly in Anholt’s eyes. 

“Oh! Van — dear — not again!” she cried, in a sob-checked, hesitating 
voice. “Tell me — look at me, dearie — you wouldn’t — you haven’t done 
anything that’s wrong again. Tell me ‘no,’ Van, when I’ve just come back 
to you.” Shuddering and without waiting for reply she threw herself on 

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her husband’s breast. Erect as a statue; with one hand resting on her 
head, and trembling in effort to maintain his self-control he made no 
attempt to answer. Instead, he looked inquiringly at the older man, who — 
hat and cane in hand — was standing backed against the wall, apparently 
in anything but easy frame of mind. 

“Well, Withers — what is it?” The old man bristled up with rage. He 
had heard that sharp incisive voice before, and never with aught but 
angry thoughts. “You’re the leader here, I know right well — talk out !” 

Essingham, who rebelled whenever slighted or ignored, answered in 
the other’s stead, at the same time tapping significantly a pocket in his 
coat, from which the jingling sound of some hard, metallic thing now 
came. 

“Lay down there, will you, till this gent has had his say ! If he’d hand 
it to you right, I’d slip the irons on, damned quick — take that from me.” 

Anholt, conscious of the tremor passing over the delicate figure held 
closely in his arms, started with a half suppressed cry of rage to spring 
across the space intervening between the officer and himself. Impeded by 
the woman’s clinging body, he stopped, lowered his head, and uttered a 
few short, quick words audible to her alone. The hand of Essing- 
ham, moving toward his pistol pocket, was stayed by the warning 
voice of Withers, whose position was becoming more intolerable as the 
seconds passed. The detective’s eyes, turned for an instant question- 
ingly on his companion’s face, missed the whispered words of Anholt to 
his wife. When his attention was again directed toward them, the only 
observable change was in the calmer demeanor of the man. He might, 
perhaps, also have noticed the woman stepping slowly backward, until, 
eventually, she seemed to find support in leaning on the secretaire in the 
furthest corner of the room. 

“I don’t, sir” — Withers was saying to the sear-eyed fellow at his right 

“like to hear such language, especially, I may add, sir, where ladies are 
around; and I assume, sir, regardless of this knave whose company she 
keeps, we’re in the presence of a lady now. Remember, sir,” he added, 
shaking his cane as if to lend emphasis to his remarks ; “my duty as a 
Christian man, compels my offering this rogue a chance. He don’t deserve 

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it though — no, sir” — turning and addressing Anholt — “you don’t deserve 
it — not a bit.” 

The latter, who had regained a mastery over his emotion — for the time 
at least — looked unflinchingly at the aged one. “Your words are quite 
distinct,” he said, “although a trifle loud. And now, as friends will soon 
be due, permit me to request once more, an explanation of your call.” 

Withers, desirous of bringing to a speedy close an interview that 
promised to bear so heavily on his nerves, and anxious lest the coming 
of the young man’s friends involve him in a situation more compromising 
than he liked, raised his finger again in warning to the officer whose 
tendency to talk was still quite manifest, and stepping forward from the 
wall, replied: 

“I should think, sir, this lady being here with you would have enough 
to bear, without insisting on being a party to this unpleasant scene.” 

“The lady will remain,” said Anholt, calmly. “Besides,” he added, “it’s 
a long talk that has no joke, and you’ll find she’s abundantly able to dis- 
cern the point.” 

“What, sir, would you insinuate ? Don’t think I’m here to play the fool ! 
I asked you once, sir, to keep your dirty presence from our League and 
not corrupt our members with your touch ; and you, sir — man without 
principle that you are — answer me like an impertinent young whelp. Old 
man that I am, you dare insult me, sir — aye, you ridicule me before the 
faces of my friends. I told you, sir, I knew the kind of dog you were, 
and now you crown your acts of infamy by carrying on swindling opera- 
tions — to think of it, sir — under our very noses in the League ! To think 
that I should see the day, sir, when our young men would become parties 
to such schemes as yours ! I .” 

“You refer,” interrupted Anholt, with interrogatory look, “to the invest- 
ment by two friends of mine in certain guano rights ?” 

“I refer, sir, to the chimerical industry that’s meant to fill your pockets 
at other men’s expense. I’m surprised, sir, that you don’t lay claim to 
gold mines in the moon.” 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” commented the other, dryly. 

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“Now, sir,” and the drug manufacturer, having placed his Fedora on 
the floor, brought his cane down in the palm of his left hand with a 
resounding whack: “You’re either going to promise me now, in writing, to 
keep away from our building, and what’s more, sir, from associating with 
our men, or I — I’ll 

“Well?” queried the young man, “you’ll what?” 

“I’ll send you back, sir, where you belong ; away from honest men who 
stand in danger of contamination by mixing with such hypocrites as you. 
Why, sir,” he continued, shaking the cane in Anholt’s face, “you belong, 
sir, to the devil’s own. What infernal power you use to gain our mem- 
bers’ confidence, I can’t, sir, understand; but don’t think, sir, you can 
wind me around your finger, or humbug me with honeyed words.” 

“Your talk,” retorted the subject of this verbal attack, “is still con- 
siderably obscure.” His eyes were flashing now, in anticipation of a 
crisis yet to come. “I judge, though, from the knowledge I possess of 
your co-operation with this fellow here” — the nod with which he desig- 
nated the officer, signified both defiance and contempt — “and from the 
unreasonable, bitter way in which you’ve treated me, you mean that 
either here and now I must promise to sever my friendships — even my 
acquaintanceship — with League members, or you’ll — you — ” he hesitated, 
thinking of the little woman nearing him again. 

“You’ll go with me, my laddie buck, if that’s what stickin’ in your 
crop,” broke in Essingham, who had begun to view with suspicion the 
movements of the woman, who had moved again to her husband’s side. 

“And on what charge?” asked Anholt. 

“Charge, hell !” As the merciless, unfeeling words rang out, the hus- 
band’s arm for the second time encircled Dorothy’s waist. “I’ve got you 
pat. You ain’t got no discharge from your parole, have you ? And you’ve 
bucked the tiger for the last three months at Bishop’s, ain't you. A wise 
guy like you, maybe can put the two together — see ?” 

Anholt, in spite of his endeavor to preserve a calm, unruffled mien, 
started as the full peril of his position was disclosed in the detective’s 
coarse, expressive words. For the first time, he realized the technical 
mistake he made in frequenting his friend’s resort, and the complications 

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possible through a misconstruction of the cause that took him there. The 
parole laws applying to the reformatories of the Empire State, have need 
of much amendment, as indeed they have of a more intelligent enforce- 
ment as they stand. A parole — as the law now is — becomes an absolute 
release in from six to eight months’ time at the option of the parole board 
— an option too indiscriminately exercised when the prisoner has been at 
liberty that long. The state’s ward, during this probationary period, 
reports in person every thirty days at the local office of the Prison Associa- 
tion, submitting a statement covering his earnings, his expenses, and the 
employment of his time. These reports, seldom verified, are forwarded to 
the reformatory clerk; the sixth one, usually accompanied by an official 
endorsement by the Prison Association recommending the man’s release — 
a communication frequently based on anything but the proved merits of 
the case, but insuring freedom from further responsibility on the prison 
agent’s part. With equal candor let it be explained, a slight infraction of 
the moral code is sufficient grounds for termination of the parole and rein- 
carceration of the man — a result more often brought about through com- 
plaints made by persons desiring his rearrest than in consequence of any 
pronounced activity on the Prison Association’s part. In truth, it may be 
said, that a mere report of moral remissness, if filed through any source 
of good repute, suffices for the revocation of whatever claims to liberty 
the accused one may have. No formal process of the law; no considera- 
tion by impartial courts of evidence adduced; no right or privilege of 
appeal — the dictum of the law is clear. The paroled man is just as much 
a prisoner as if confined behind the walls. If he is granted the right to 
move about outside it is for the purpose of enabling him the better to 
demonstrate his eligibility for unqualified release. Until that happy hour 
arrives he remains within the jurisdiction of the reformatory authorities. 
They can do with him as they will, and the prison agent — the Prison 
Association in other words — acting with their approval remains largely — 
one might say almost fully — independent of the courts. 

Anholt, alive to the signification of a threat involving the jeopardizing 
of his liberty, ambitions and interests, awaited for a time, some con- 
firmatory word or gesture from the older man. The latter, notwithstand- 

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in g his active and vehement enmity, as disclosed at each encounter with 
this paroled man, was still possessed of gentlemanly attributes, and, if 
a firm determination to force Anholt at any hazard from the field was 
evidenced by his acts, a strong disinclination to pursue the subject further 
in the woman’s presence, made him hesitate to speak. Nor was his feel- 
ing of embarrassment assuaged by the realization that by his coming here 
in the company of Essingham he apparently condoned and lent encourage- 
ment to the oaths and rough, insulting language of that officer. As to 
the epithets he himself had used, they were descriptive, merely, and then 
besides, he held them justified. About to insist again, on Mrs. Anholt’s 
retirement from the room, his intention was frustrated by her husband, 
who watching him intently, said : 

“Am I to understand that you, professedly a Christian man, come to 
my home on this, the night that God has sanctified by returning me my 
wife, and here, before her, offer me the choice of rank disloyalty or jail? 
That you, cloaked in the mantle of your self-sufficiency — unforgiving, 
uncharitable and unjust, presume to act as judge of what I do, and then 
associate yourself with things like that to insure a prompt enforcement 
of the penalty?” 

Essingham, with Anholt’s finger pointed straight at him, would, but 
for the meaning look of Withers, have made short ending of the scene. 

“I do not understand,” the impassioned voice went on, “what act of 
mine provoked High Providence to draft me as a martyr to your malig- 
nant whim, and what is more, I’ve long since ceased to care a rap. I do 
know that behind the paid protection of your pliant tools you’ve shown 
yourself a blackguard, sneak, and as I told you once before, a noisy, 
silly ass. And when your senile mind reverts to that, please to recall as 
well, that to your menaces I gave reply in words I thought you’d under- 
stand. That same reply, old man, I give you now ; and let me tell you that 
I mean it — mean it, do you hear — regardless of your wealth and pull. 
Withers, I say damn you — damn you, do you understand — and every 
threat you ever made or want to make. I’ll block your efforts, every time 
you undertake transforming them to deeds.” 

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Dorothy, fearful that her husband’s words would irritate both men 
to a point of action fatal to the plan she knew he had in mind, had tried 
to interrupt and stop him in his speech. Withers, the convulsive twitch- 
ing of whose facial muscles, revealed the agitation of his mind, started 
forward, with cane upraised as if to mete out vengeance on the speaking 
man ; while Essingham, satisfied now that his time for action had arrived, 
caught his excited principal with outstretched arm and pushing him 
backward, forced him in a chair. 

“I told you how ’twould be. Watch me — he’ll sing a different 

Hell! what .” v 

In turning, he had caught — reflected in the tall and gilt framed mirror — 
a sight that left him for the moment, devoid of power to act or speak. A 
delicate, white hand, drawn from the depths of a woman’s skirt, brought 
forth a shining, deadly thing. As quick as lightening in the sky, another, 
stronger hand had seized it — a hand whose owner, whirling like a flash, 
now levelled the weapon with unerring, steady aim, upon the still half 
bent figure of the officer of the law. The latter, although inured to danger 
in its many forms, was by no means a fool, nor was he, with death 
standing in his path, inclined to run against it when the way around was 
clear. 

“Up — quick — your hands !” Before the command had been fully uttered 
two pairs of hands, instead of one were moving in the air. “Not you 
Withers — sit down — I’ll show consideration for your age. You , 
Essingham” — to the detective, watching for opening to pull his gun — 
“keep ’em up ! You — By God, I’ve got you where I want you now ! Up — 
up ! damn you, with your hands. You know me — you move and I’ll 
drive your carcass full of holes. Dorothy, dear” — his eyes, like balls of 
fire, never left the officer’s face — “his revolver is in the outside pocket of 
his coat. Please get it, and when you do, just lift the coat a little and 
make sure another isn’t in reserve. Don’t fear — I’m longing for excuse 
to drive a bullet home. Ah! thanks. Now, gentlemen — your attention. 
You, Mr. Withers, will retain your seat. You, Essingham, stand still — 
now, so — face about — towards the wall — hurry up — shut up, you — not a 
word! Now, Dorothy” — the ringing, vibrant voice, portentious of some 

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tragic deed, had again dropped to notes of solicitude and love — “the tele- 
phone, there, just behind the door — will you get it please, and hand it 
out to me? — that’s it — good — thanks.” 

A small stand, with onyx top, was used by Anholt as a rest for the 
’phone attachment. With a quick movement of the foot he drew a chair 
alongside, seated himself with left hand holding the receiver to his ear 
while with the right he maintained his control over the instrument of death, 
pointed unwaveringly at Essingham. Then he gave his call and waited. 
The connection was quickly made. “Hello! I say, is this Parker? Yes? 

Is Mr. Storey there? I hold on a minute.” Placing his hand over 

the transmitter he started from his seat. “That’ll do you” — addressing 
the officer. “Turn around and keep that trap of yours closed tight — and 
you” — turning to the nervous Withers — “will take your instructions from 
me alone ; remember that !” Now he removed his hand from the telephone 
attachment. “All right, Parker, go ahead ! How’s that ? Oh ! all right — 
thanks. Mr. Anholt — yes — good night.” Coincident with the snap signal- 
izing the return of the receiver to its hook, the sharp, nerve-exciting ring- 
ing of the hall bell put a stop to the protest which Withers started to 
make against what he designated “a heinous and criminal outrage.” 
Anholt requested Dorothy to answer the bell, adding : 

“Bring them right along. This picture is too good for any of my 
friends to miss.” 

A moment later and the imperturbable, immaculately dressed Bishop, 
instinctively deferring to the woman’s evident antipathy to pleasant repar- 
tee, and by his courtesy and tact transforming her embarrassment into 
a spontaneous feeling of security and faith, stepped into the room. 
Anholt, familiar as he was with the idiosyncrasies of his friend, could not 
refrain from admiring the marvelous self-control exhibited by the latter 
as his eyes encountered the surprising tableau. To all appearances he 
noticed nothing unusual or extraordinary. The whole thing might, indeed, 
have been a mere hallucination running riot in Anholt’s excited brain; a 
suspicion strengthened by the actions of Bishop, who, with a courtier's 
grace bowed his hostess to a seat, nodded unconcernedly to his friend, 
and then, his eye having been attracted by the etching referred to a short 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


time since, commented tersely on the incident Anholt had undertaken to 
explain when the first interruption came. Following this, he seated him- 
self with easy gesture in a chair adjoining Dorothy, who, had she not 
become, through hearsay, to some extent conversant with his ways, would 
undoubtedly have been quite frantic by this time. 

“Now there is Anholt,” he remarked, apropos of nothing. “A man who 
leans to target practice in a flat deserves the curb of a rigid marital dis- 
cipline. Poor judgment, his, in choice of targets anyhow. Now, if he 
hits the bull’s eye, nothing’s lost. If he doesn’t, though, he’s got a 
damaged wall to — I beg your pardon, brother.” He had stopped suddenly 
and eyed his friend interrogatively. 

“I started to say,” returned the other, “that if you’ll satisfy Mrs. Anholt 
you can act as well as talk I’ll be very much obliged. It was to give you a 
chance to prove your Mephistophelian talents, as it were, that I’ve been 
waving this infernal gun around until my arm is sore. The point is 
this, Bishop. These gentlemen insisted on my company. You can well 
guess why and where. It was a case of go or keep them here until one or 
the other of my all powerful friends arrived. I concluded to adopt the 
latter alternative and keep them. The one, you know. The other, I have 
told you of. He is a gentleman by heredity, association and repute. He 
is a man who stoops to the publication of anonymous personals in order 
to ruin men he doesn’t like. He is a remorseless enemy of mine because 
of some distorted function of his brain. Now that you’ve arrived I’m 
prepared to let him go.” 

Withers, who time and again had started to rise, only to be checked 
by Anholt’s word or gesture, now struggled to his feet, prepared to take 
advantage of his enemy’s expressed willingness to see him depart, and 
yet doubtful whether he should attempt it without a direct notice sanc- 
tioning the act. Essingham, leaning first on one foot and then on the 
other, had, since Bishop’s arrival, been as docile as a child, presenting by 
his demeanor a vivid contrast to his former blustering mood. Dorothy, 
who throughout an ordeal bound to work injury to her delicate nervous 
organism, had rendered such efficient service to the man she loved, turned 

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to Bishop with an air of confidence so apparent as to cause him — as he 
afterward observed — to feel the spirit of omnipotence in his veins. 

“Just to think,” she said, turning her trustful eyes on his; “this is my 
home-coming. I don’t know what it means,” she continued, “but I know 
Van isn’t to blame. Won’t you please help him, Mr. Bishop, and save 
him from these awful people? You’re so powerful.” The request and 
smile were irresistible. “You see,” she persisted; “that’s why he took the 
risk of making them stay. He knew when you came you would protect 
him.” With the last words, she placed a soft, imploring hand upon his 
own. Anholt, standing near with lowered arms, glanced down. He saw, 
and heard, and smiled. 

“Dear girl,” he thought, “you’re saving him from a graver peril than I 
ever ran tonight.” 

Bishop’s eyes had flashed back a reassuring look to her’s. “Nothing 
easier,” he said. “Your desperado husband had figured out a merry time 
— of a different sort — tonight, but the tragic muse must have mixed her 
dates. Anholt”- — turning and looking up at his friend — “that artillery, 
please — both of them.” No change of posture, other than extended arm, 
signified a feeling of concern. Taking the proffered weapons he extracted 
the cartridges from the one belonging to the officer, with a knowing 
hand. Then, opening Anholt’s, he glanced up with an inquiring smile. 
The pistol was empty. 

“Yes, he knew,” volunteered Dorothy, reading his thought. “Other- 
wise I wouldn’t have — Oh ! Van, I didn’t mean to tell. Truly, I didn’t.” 
Both men smiled. Before either could reply, Withers approached the 
group and exclaimed : 

“I insist, sir, that you let me leave this accursed hole. I’ll show you 
sir. I’ll have the satisfaction of the law. Why, sir, you’re a murderer at 
heart. You’re .” 

Anholt interrupted him. “I notice,” he observed, “these revolvers both 
are empty now. Commendable discretion, yours. You are free to go 
whenever this gentleman” — indicating Bishop — “consents.” 

The one referred to raised his hand. “About that law you’re dying to 
invoke,” he said. “Wait — you need an object lesson. ESSINGHAM, 

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come here!” Bishop now was on his feet. At the sharp tone of com- 
mand, Withers fell back as if in fear. The officer, who had determined to 
try and bluff the situation out, whirled around with a startled, guilty air. 

“Now what is’t to you?” he began. “What in .” 

“COME HERE!” This repetition of the order effectually prevented 
the completion of the detective’s question. He hesitated, looked first at 
Withers, then at Bishop, and — obeyed. 

“Essingham, you’re a thief — admit it!” 

The one accused, stared in surprise and shrugged his shoulder. “Admit 
nit. Gimme the gun and I’ll git out o’ here, but I ain’t failin’ for no 
confession game.” 

“It’s better than opening up about Polly Henderson. You’re falling 
easy, man.” 

At the enigmatical words, the fellow started back and threw up his 
hands as if to ward off an attack. The ruddy tint in his face was suc- 
ceeded by a pallor eloquent of fearful thoughts. 

“Great God!” he cried. “You’re not after me for that?” 

“That’s up to you. I want that answer. Come on !” 

The officer, with head lowered, and eyes roving here and there about 
the room as if in search for opening to escape; opened his lips; closed 
them again ; fumbled with his watch chain ; shot a curious, fleeting glance 
at Bishop, and then — mumbled in words almost inarticulate: “I guess 
you’re right at that.” 

“And you’ll leave Mr. Anholt alone after this?” 

“I’m done, what with this and them personals what you got me to lose 
thirty days pay for, I’ve had enough,” and he moved toward the door 
as if he deemed the inquisition over. 

“Here, Essingham, we’ll end this seance right. Down on your knees 
and make apology to Mr. Anholt.” 

“Oh, here, Bishop!” interposed the latter. “Let him go! He’s been 
humiliated enough.” 

Ignoring his friend’s intervention in the detective’s behalf, Bishop kept 
his eyes riveted on the quailing figure before him. 

“You’re slow ! I don’t propose to give this order twice.” 

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What thoughts were flashing through the mind of Essingham ; what 
curses remained unspoken on his lips; what sense of degradation dragged 
upon his heart, Bishop neither knew nor cared. Martinet at all times 
where the question of obedience arose and master of the situation here, 
he would be satisfied with nothing short of prompt and unqualified sub- 
mission to his will. 

An awkward movement; a bended knee; a blur of unintelligible words, 
and the law’s minion had abased himself beyond retrieve. His bloodshot, 
puffy eyes now turned to the merciless being — the one whom in a physical 
encounter he could have crushed as he would a fragile shell — in a mute 
appeal for liberation from the scene. Once again the remorseless voice 
rang out : 

“This gun I’ll keep. Your shield goes on the desk tomorrow — for 
good — you understand ? It’s that or the truth about Polly, man.” Then, 
turning to Anholt as Essingham, accompanied by Withers, started for the 
door, he queried: “Any remarks, before the session ends?” 

“I think,” came the response, “with reputation assassins we’ve had words 
enough for one night. If this,” he commented a minute later, after hav- 
ing shown the two men the door, “had been a scene at People’s I’d have 
called it melodrama run stark mad.” 

“It seems to be,” said Dorothy, who had been standing by the window, 
“that scenes — live scenes, I mean, must be constructed around the 
emotions and their strength cannot exceed the degree of passions which 
they depict. What imagination is so versatile or strong as to conjure up 
for our approval displays of feeling intense enough to produce crises 
more tragic than those seen in our everyday life. Do you know” — 
glancing at her husband and moving to a seat — “I shudder every time 
I think of getting you that pistol. Suppose you hadn’t fooled the 
man .” 

“My main concern, dear,” replied Anholt, “was lest our neighbors take 
up arms. It’s lucky there’s no building across the way. I wonder now,” 
he continued, “where Bob and Storey have wandered to.” 

“The first,” said Bishop, long since having returned to his normal, 
languid mood; “is probably rehearsing Gayboy’s Parlor Etiquette. The 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


latter — may kind heaven save!” If the invocation was unsatisfactory 
and vague, it received its justification in Storey’s solicitous attention to 
Miss Von Bonhorst, who, accompanying him, arrived five minutes later. 

‘‘Don’t mention it,” offered Anholt in response to Storey’s rather 
detailed explanation of their late arrival. “We’ve been dallying here 
with the theory of mind controlling matter.” 

“With what result?” asked the minister. 

“Acceptance of its truth — providing,” the host supplemented, “the 
supply of subterfuge is adequate for the test.* 


[ 129 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER XIV. 

New York, September 27th, 1900. 

Walter E. Powers, Esq., 

Corporation Counsel's Office, City. 

My dear Mr. Powers — 

I have your favor of yesterday, inviting me to address your class 
in Political Economy on what you term my “original theory of gov- 
ernment.” At the present time I believe it would be unwise for me 
to make any public expression of my views on this subject, and I 
must therefore, much as I regret the necessity, decline to avail myself 
of your courteous invitation. 

This “theory” is as yet a mere jumble of crude ideas, as evidence 
of which I enclose herewith copies of a series of pamphlets on the 
subject, which were published some years ago by a society of which 
I was a member. I, of course, admit the authorship. Although my 
experience since that time has tended to confirm me in the beliefs I 
then expressed, I have been unable, owing to circumstances, to fill 
in the gaps or round off the jagged edges of the argument. I am 
extremely averse, because of that fact, to proclaiming myself or being 
heralded as the originator of some new doctrine, which by reason of 
its imperfections and incompleteness, would simply result in my being 
termed another crank with Utopian proclivities. I have no objection 
to, nor have I the right to oppose, a discussion by your class of the 
pros and cons of the ideas I have expressed, and for that reason and 
lest you find it difficult to select from the mass of matter contained 
in these pamphlets, the really salient features, I submit the following 
brief synopsis (if I may call it such), which may be of service. 

I hold castes or classes (using the words in precisely the same 
sense) to be ineradicable so long as the mental powers and endow- 
ments of mankind vary as they do today. The true measure of man 
is not to be found in his wealth, or profession, or method of earning 
a livelihood, any more than it is to be found in his color, race, loca- 
tion on the map, or physical attributes. The test lies in the brain 

the link between the animal and the divine ; the organ which by usage 
and in time, bears evidence of our mental, moral and spiritual pro- 
gress. Our ambitions, purposes, likes and dislikes, knowledge of 
this thing and that; our sufferings, rejoicings, experience and hones 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


react inevitably on it and leave their imprint there, making for our 
characters, our weaknesses or strength. It is the glass through which 
we see our fellowmen, and so determine their relative position to 
ourselves, according to our capacity for fairness and for perfect under- 
standing. This being true, I hold it reasonable to assume that the 
more men differ in intelligence, with a consequent inability to see 
things from the same standpoint of view, the wider the divergence 
of opinion as to the position one man holds as compared with that of 
some one else. For instance, we see mere wealth viewed in two far 
different ways. To the ignorant it is the great desideratum, the sole 
objective point, in reaching which, one becomes possessed of all else 
needful to bring happiness to life. They believe this in their heart 
of hearts, despite their loud mouthed vomitings against the rich. In 
proof of which, I challenge you to point a single instance out, where 
some poor man, having by chance been showered with sudden wealth, 
has not ceased his rabid vaporings on pocketing his gold. Compare 
this with the attitude assumed by men of culture and pronounced 
intelligence. Observe the downward glance with which they look 
on fortune in its material sense. If, in their relations to other men 
they think of it at all, it is only as an incidental thing, influencing 
their attitude no more than would your friend’s possession of a new 
born babe affect the feeling which you have hitherto held for him. 
We see, therefore, that with the higher development of the brain, 
the conditions that make most surely for dissatisfaction with our 
sphere in life (thereby tending to produce the class distinctions we 
decry), gradually disappear. In other words, humanity’s hope for 
extrication from caste bondage lies not in pulling our superiors down, 
but in working up to them along intelligent and consistent lines ; 
through a more intense devotion to our moral and our mental selves, 
and less to the material side of life. This end will not be accom- 
plished today, nor yet tomorrow; nor will all the tracts, and litera- 
ture, and lectures in the world, in themselves bring about the desired 
result. We must proceed along new and unique lines — lines totally 
different from any yet laid down. In demolishing the present social 
structure with its false distinctions as to class, we’ve got to set another 
up with the grades or differences clearly outlined and described. 
We must admit that classes of necessity exist, and with such admis- 
sion furnish a practicable plan whereby each individual of good 
health and normal mind, regardless of his or her means or previous 
sphere in life, can, with reason, hope to reach the highest state. In 
the disease itself, we must find the antitoxin bringing ultimate relief. 

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In a frank acknowledgment of its existence our sole hope for its 
eventual extinction lies. The first essential must be, to show that 
wealth, as such, plays not the slightest part in advancing one under 
the scheme which I propose. We must frame a code of laws making 
the quality and extent of one’s intelligence the determining factor in 
placing him where he properly belongs. To make (if you insist on 
calling it such), the world a giant school, with you, and I, and all 
the rest striving for the grade above. As each man nears the top 
the catholicity of tastes and interests will become more manifest, just 
as today, in hundreds of colleges throughout our land, the trend is 
toward more democratic ways, and the making of real worth the sole 
criterion of each student’s social rank. Nor does a proposition of 
this kind involve such complications as might, at first seem obvious. 
The standards by which the mental attainments of each man or 
woman would be gauged, need not be cumbersome or vague. Each 
person’s progress would be along the lines his or her inclinations 
turned, but it would be always onward, upward, to that point where 
every branch of specialization would become merged into one radiant 
constellation, with a brilliancy illuminating all the world. All of 
this, of course, implies man’s being honest with himself and candidly 
confessing the existence of truths too long obscured by prejudice 
and sentimental waves. The rank illusion of man’s equality to man, 
is already disappearing like the mist before the sunshine of live 
thought. Heredity, environment, mental or physical disease, wealth 
or poverty, influence, genius, ability, due regard for the rights of 
other men, or lack of such regard, and above all, education or its 
want — these are a few of the conditions that have assisted in making 
a mockery of our boasted equal rights. It is a truth that finds cor- 
roboration in the social unrest of today. Why not be honest? Why 
not admit the theory is wrong, all things conditioned as they are? 
Then, when this is done, let us get to work and rectify our error, 
even if we must, perforce, destroy the system now built up. True, 
it would disrupt the present social cliques ; it might affect your neigh- 
bor’s standing as regards yourself ; it undoubtedly would reverse 
positions here and there, and force wealth down to make room for 
honesty and brains; but, in doing all of this the real end sought will 
be attained. Each man is placed where he belongs. He may qualify 
or not, as he prefers, for the rights and privileges of a higher sphere. 
If he does, it will be because pure merit and nothing else, has paved 
his way. 


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You will argue that the quality of men’s minds varies, and con- 
sequently their ability to assimilate knowledge must ever remain 
anything but the same; that, as a result, under my “theory” the dis- 
tinction between classes must remain as great, if not greater than 
they are today. Admitting this would be the case at first, and with- 
out commenting on the fact that at least the distinctions would be 
honest ones, my contention is, that with the passing of years and 
generations ; with decades — perhaps centuries, of striving for the 
prize; compelled in a way to work toward the higher planes, this 
inequality must in the very nature of things, gradually diminish and 
finally disappear. 

You will tell me that as men climb the intellectual ladder, so 
will the ladder itself increase in height, and the distance to the top 
remain unconquerable. I cannot believe it. Acknowledging the 
race will never cease to progress in learning and achievement, I still 
assert the rate of advancement would be small as compared with the 
speed one could reasonably expect humanity to attain in harvesting 
to the full the present and prospective crops of demonstrated truths. 
Strength comes through exercise, and practice increases with sur- 
prising strides the retentiveness of the mind. Forced to study, the 
child will learn its lessons in a night. Left undisturbed at play and 
the summer passes without the opening of a book. We are all 
children. You must either force us or make it worth our while to 
use our brains beyond the mere necessities of the hour. 

You will object that as a solution of the social problem it would 
require too long a time. Well, the disease is a chronic one and origi- 
nally took root when the second man outran the first. What remedy 
is powerful enough to destroy the germs in a single day? What 
makeshift will permanently ease the pain? The question is— are 
we — all of us, living only for today; or what brave percentage does 
exist, willing on behalf of the greater race to come, to sink corrosive 
selfishness and mistaken, hurtful pride, in furtherance of this greatest 
cause of all? How many, honestly admitting this to be a country 
of unequal rights; of class distinctions based on purely material and 
dishonest grounds, will help to reconstruct the social structure, with 
castes provided for along consistent, well defined, and equitable, 
(you will smile at the word), lines; paving the way for their ultimate 
extinction in the provisions made, enabling all to reach the topmost 
rung regardless of material assets — assets which, as things remain 
today, would, if lost, carry with them to the bottom, social prestige, influ- 
ence, a badly dismantled pride and all? But the assets I suggest as essen- 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


tial to one’s social ascendancy can neither be lost nor taken by any other 
man, whether by hook, or crook, or might. 

You will say, this policy would destroy domestic harmony; dis- 
rupt families, and array their various members one against the other ; 
a contingency provided for, (in so far as I believe it best), in the 
proposed regulations covering the contraction of marital obliga- 
tions, and in the provision giving children their parents’ rank until 
maturity is reached, at which time they are transferred to the grade 
to which they rightfully belong. On this point, I long debated 
whether it might not be wisest to have all children under age ex- 
empted altogether from class law — that is, to have them all move as 
equals in a neutral zone. I concluded, however, that such a plan 
would prove unfeasible, if not indeed threatening to the accomplish- 
ment of the end in view. 

You will contend that no young person on emerging from the 
teens, could hope to retain their standing in their parents’ class, if 
that be near the top. No more do young men now, by right of their 
intrinsic worth, exert real influence or retain their prestige in the 
social world. It is a matter solely of reflected light; a position as 
dangerous as it is undeserved; an evil too frequently robbing some 
worthy senior of well earned preference in order to favor a bumptious 
and unregenerate youth. This will probably suggest to you the 
objection that even under my plan, wealth retains its advantage here, 
inasmuch as the rich man’s son, released from the necessity of earn- 
ing his livelihood, could devote himself more fully to the cultivation 
of his mind. In reply to this, I call your attention to the suggested 
legislation making it compulsory for every man to show an actual, 
a proved, and a continuous earning power before he can secure admit- 
tance to the grade above. Dependence on bequests, gifts, money in 
hand, or on the old folks for support, to any extent whatsoever, 
operates against him when the subject of his promotion is under 
official consideration. 

You will note the law-making powers increase as the highest class 
is reached, until the supreme authority — the last word in the execu- 
tive, legislative and judicial branches is vested in the citizens of that 
grade. And here you have your guarantee of a government con- 
ducted along the highest intellectual, ethical and nonpartisan lines 
it’s possible to conceive. 

There is nothing particularly new in the method of taxation which 
I advocate. It is merely a matter of proportioning the rate to the 
exact property holdings of each individual, whether the property be 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


personal or real. This man, rich, must pay such percentage on his 
wealth, as will exempt, or nearly so, the poor man owning only 
house and home, from being taxed at all. Verified accounts of each 
person s holdings, at the time of his or her decease, are made and 
filed by the State’s accountants, among the public records, where 
they are available for inspection by all who care to see. Any por- 
tion of the estate, not included in the last tax return made prior to 
the owner’s death, and proved to have been in his or her possession 
at the time of making the report, would be immediately confiscated 
for the benefit of the community at large. 

I think you will find that ample provision has been made, discour- 
sing to moral lapses, and for the preventing of questionable charac- 
ters from holding either office or authority, — a most important item 
when man’s jurisdiction over man is the issue most at stake. 

You will notice the rule of caste does not apply, either to the mentally 
infirm, or to persons undergoing punishment for crime. In ref- 
erence to the latter class, you will observe that sentences are to be im- 
posed according to no set or arbitrary rule. No consideration is to be 
given to legal restrictions similar to the one which, in some states makes 
the stealing of $34.99 a misdemeanor only, regardless of the conditions 
under which the theft is perpetrated; while, if one cent more is taken, 
under circumstances comparatively excusable, the act becomes a felony 
and is punishable as such. Under such laws as I suggest, a crime re- 
mains a crime, but its degree and the penalty to be exacted are to be 
determined only after the prisoner’s history, motives and the conditions 
surrounding the commission of the offense are thoroughly considered by 
the sentencing court — a court bound by no law saying this shall be the 
minimum, and that the maximum punishment to be inflicted for any one 
especial kind of crime. And here it may be pertinent to call your atten- 
tion to what I have designated the Bureau of Motives. When General 
Booth first broached his plan for counteracting what was termed the 
“suicidal craze”, the thought occurred to me that by elaborating on his 
idea, a department might be organized under state control, tending 
largely to reduce the commission of many forms of crimes. Such a 
department or bureau, with extended powers, would work in conjunc- 
tion with the criminal courts. With impartial and unbiased mind it 
would search not alone into the wrongdoer’s past, but would strive to 
ascertain what course of reasoning turned him from the honest path. 
It would seek the motive, holding it of greater moment than the act. 
It would occupy a field like unto nothing we’ve had before. Unmoved 
either by the prosecutor’s charge or by defendant’s plea, its verdict, 

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when announced would be second only in importance to that of the jury 
called upon to determine the prisoner’s innocence or guilt. This Bureau 
would be vested with the power of granting conditional immunity from 
prosecution to the first offender, who, still undetected, makes a full and 
voluntary confession of his guilt. There are hundreds of young men 
today, employed in various capacities throughout this city’s length and 
breadth, who are shaking with the dread of some small peculation being 
brought to light — conscience stricken, and strongly tempted, but for the 
possibility of arrest, to confess their transgression to the men they rob- 
bed. But, as things now are, such men are likely to commit a second 
crime in order to prevent discovery of the first. From that time onward, 
their downward progress is inevitable and fast. But here you have a 
Bureau, (call it a confessional if you will), to which the man, assured of 
silence and protection goes. He explains his motive — the circumstances 
leading to the deed. He is looked up; his reputation to this time is 
found to be untarnished; his record, (so far as the evidence shows), is 
clear. Legal minds, if necessary, are brought in play; some means de- 
vised whereby the money is returned — if need be by a loan — a loan that 
under conditions such as these is well secured. And so this man, saved 
from exposure, retaining his position — in many instances at least, and 
with reputation dear, profits by the lesson and keeps in honest ways. 
If he errs a second time and his error comes to light, his former lapse is 
published to the world and punishment is meted out sufficient to fit the 
requirements of the case. 

But enough of this. In what I’ve said, you will find enough material 
for an interesting argument. The details given in the pamphlets I 
enclose, will doubtless help along. 

You understand, of course, that I hope some day to try my ideas out — 
in a small and humble way it’s true. I am not so foolish as to look for 
their adoption by the world through any other course. To gather around 
myself a small community in sympathy with this plan ; to take my posi- 
tion in whatever social grade I rightfully belong; to test the “theory” 
out — changing, enlarging, modifying here and there as experience di- 
rects; then, if real merit seems to show, to gradually enlarge the field of 
effort until the right is earned to urge consideration of its principles by 
the world at large — that represents the furthest I can ever hope to go. 

Sincerely yours, 

ANSON VAN ANHOLT. 


Five enclosures. 


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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


New York, September 27th, 1900. 

The Rev. Melville Storey, 

2 West 57 th Street , City. 

Dear Storey — 

After mature consideration of your counsel and argument of Sunday 
last, I am unable to find any valid reason justifying my withdrawal from 
the office of vice-president of the International Guano and Fertilizer 
Company, much less from any participation whatsoever in its affairs. 
It would mean disloyalty to the friends who have invested their funds 
on the sole understanding that I would be actively identified with it. 
It would mean a censurable indifference to my own best interests at a 
time when probable success seems near, and I must admit, at a time when 
my own obligations have become most pressing. Frankly, dear Storey, 
your appeal lacked the logic and convincing earnestness inseparable from 
a plea made with the sincerity of one’s convictions. I am constrained 
to believe therefore, that it was inspired — by whom I shall not undertake 
to guess. But in that belief I find it easier to reply, and especially so, 
because it was by reason of my opposition that neither you nor Bishop 
became financially interested in the venture. 

Prof. Rosseau, the well known mining engineer, has accepted the presi- 
dency, succeeding the temporary president, Leonard, who resigned. 
The professor, like myself, is very hopeful of success. Our sample 
cargo should reach Mobile and be ready for analysis by the middle of 
November. If the quality runs eight, six, or even four per cent of nitro- 
gen, with a proportionate amount of phosphoric acid and potash, my 
hopes will meet with realization. You understand, we would receive on 
the basis of $2.80 per unit of nitrogen, for the stuff — say $16.80 per ton 
of 6 per cent quality. The entire cost of digging, shipping, and market- 
ing is a little less than $5.00 for each 2000 pounds, in cargoes of 500 
tons and over from the Atlantic islands. The cost from the Pacific 
would be about $3.00 more. To this we must add the royalty payable 
to the owners of the grants, in lieu of our purchasing them outright. 
On six per cent guano this will amount to something like $2.00 per ton. 

A failure to show a satisfactory percentage of nitrogen will mean, of 
course, that we lose the capital invested — a contingency not impossible 
in the promotion of any new and untried enterprise. I am unable to 
conceive, however, that such an unfortunate ending to our plans would 
be prolific of the disastrous results to myself that you have taken pains to 
intimate. If it should be shown that you, after all, are correct, then all 

[137] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


I can say is, — God help me in anything I ever try ! Sink or swim though, 
I propose standing by the ship until the end. So, dear Storey, for the 
present let it go at that. 

In line with your suggestion I have written Powers, enclosing the 
pamphlets, and explaining that at this time I prefer not entering into 
any public discussion of our plans. 

Mattison, Steck, and Miss Howlison are now at work. SteckV wife 
though, is pretty low and I think we had better prop them up a little 
longer. Am going down with Mrs. Anholt tonight, to try and cheer 
them up a bit. Will see you Sunday. 


Yours, 


ANHOLT. 


I 138] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER XV 

“Surely a man couldn’t be so cruel as that, and — mightn’t you have been 
mistaken?” While she spoke Dorothy’s compassionate eyes were directed 
on Marie Von Bonhorst’s tear stained face. Her hands, previously busy 
with the intricate details of some embroidery work, lay folded in her lap. 
Her entire attitude signified a feeling of intense sympathy not unmixed 
with interest in the narration of her companion’s wrongs. 

“No, dear; New Zealand is too small for men like him to remain un- 
known.” Her abstracted air, with gaze wandering through the window, 
on out beyond the sky line of the city’s housetops until at last it rested on 
the Jersey hills, betokened memories belonging to some distant place and 
time. “And then,” she continued, still monotoning her recital, “following 
the information of his cruel desertion of a wife and child in Auckland, a 
letter came from Madrid telling me of mama’s death. She was Spanish, 
you know, and was just ready to come back to me after a long, long 
visit home. Oh, Dot! to think” — the chanting voice now was stirred 
to emphasis — “that it should make me glad to learn that her dear, good 
soul had gone. She was the last friend I possessed in the whole wide 
world. All I had from that time onward was my shame.” 

For a time both remained silent. Dorothy, impelled by her condola- 
tory nature, leaned forward and gently caressed the other’s hand. 
“Never mind,” she said in a low and soothing voice, “it’s over now; 
try to forget it, dear. I oughtn’t,” she added, in a tone of self reproach, 
“to have asked you anything.” 

Marie glanced at her with a faint, wan smile. “You didn’t ask me, 
Dot. I simply felt I must confide in you. Both you and Mr. Anholt 
have been so kind I thought you ought to know — just everything.” 
Stifling the tears that threatened now to start afresh and with voice 
again devoid of cadence or inflection, she resumed the telling of her 
darker past. 

“I wanted to get away from everything and everybody I ever 
knew, before they guessed the truth. He had taken nearly everything 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


I had of value, but with what mama left I raised altogether nearly 
eighty pounds. First, I thought I’d go back to England, near the place 
where I was born. But people said the prospects here were better, and 
— you know I had to think of another now, and so I came. It was so 
long before I could get anything to do, and then, just as work was 
offered me, there came the hospital — and all. Oh ! dear Dot !” she 
exclaimed with a look like unto nothing Dorothy had ever seen there 
before, shining in her eyes — the tender, wonderful, proud look bearing 
the tale of motherhood. “When you see how healthy, and sweet and 
fat she is, and how she rolls her little eyes around and laughs and coos 
when I come near — and her cute chubby hands and feet — why, she’s 
just so strong, she can almost sit up by herself.” For a moment sor- 
row had fallen before the onslaught of a mother’s love ; and then — “I 
wouldn’t let them tear her altogether from my arms, and the little 
money I had left went to find the tiny dear a home until I could find 
a place to work. Oh ! it was so hard, Dot. Winter came and things 
went on from bad to worse. Once I had a situation as cashier in a candy 
store, and because I wouldn’t stand the insults of a lot of boys they 
let me go. Then I worked as a waitress down at Child’s, and when I 
stayed away one morning to answer an advertisement they put 
another in my place. And all the time I heard my baby calling; I saw 
her little outstretched arms and heard her gleeful cry until my heart 
grew sick and courage seemed to melt away. Then, dear, when every- 
thing was gone and all my clothes were pawned, I fell down sick. I had no 
food, nor light, nor fire, and not a single friend. The woman who kept 
my baby, insisted on more pay, and at last she wrote me, saying if she didn’t 
get it the following day she would put my darling in a public place. The 
note came at night when I was lying in the dark, cold, and sick, and hungry. 
I struck a match and read it by that light; and then, forgetting I was ill. 
feeling nothing but an intense craving for my child, and driven by the pas- 
sion of my motherhood, I dressed and staggered down the steps and out 
into the street. I was so weak I fell there — unconscious. That’s where 
Mr. Anholt found me, dear, and — you know all the rest.” 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


The woman, having ceased to speak, bent forward, resting cheeks 
and chin between her hands. Gradually the look of mingled affection 
and sorrow receded before the darkening cloud of bitter thoughts taking 
possession of her mind. The eyes, first shining with maternal love, 
then dull and gloomy with despair, now flashed the signal of some 
vengeful passion holding her in its control. Suddenly she sat erect; 
her eyes were hard and cold as steel ; her hands were clenched, her 
arms half extended in the air. 

“Oh! Just and merciful God,” she cried. “I pray the day may 
come when I shall meet that monster face to face. I ask for nothing 
else in life. Grant me, Oh Father! but that one great boon. Or 
Satan — if it be within thy power, wilt thou bring this thing to pass? 
I'll follow thee with loyalty and joy then, until the end of time.” 

She sat for a minute longer, rigid as a statue — until the pent up 
tears burst forth once more. A wail, significant of her tortured soul, 
rang out, and the trembling, quivering form sank backward in the 
chair. She felt her fevered brow first kissed, then stroked by calming, 
velvet hands. She heard the cheering, encouraging and sympathetic 
words. In the presence of this pure-souled, noble woman at her side, 
she breathed the soothing, softening atmosphere of a renewed and 
blessed hope. Her arms went up; she drew the other down — kissed 
her, wildly, passionately, and hugged her — fearful lest she move away 
— closely to her breast. 

Anholt, entering quietly and expecting to surprise his wife alone, 
paused wondering, at the entrance to the room. Stepping cautiously 
backward, he reached the corridor door, opened it stealthily and, de- 
scended to the street below. 

“Today,” he commented later to Dorothy, as they discussed the 
evening meal, “confessions have apparently been the rage. I explained 
my troubles to Professor Rosseau; Storey hints at his predilection for 
Marie, and insists on being told the why and wherefore of .” 

“And Bob,” interrupted his wife, “told her yesterday that she’s 
‘the whole big cake,’ and a lot of more good things. And do you 

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know,” she added, “he’s going regularly to night school and Marie 
insists he talks something like a gentleman.” 

“Bob is a gentleman,” came the response, “regardless of what he 
says or wears. Now dearest, about Professor Rosseau. I told him 
everything. He took it philosophically enough, and while evidently 
inclined to censure me for withholding the facts from him so long, he 
disclaims any belief that my association with the company will com- 
promise either himself or it. That’s how he feels today He’s so 
erratic, though, one can’t vouch for what he’ll think next week.” 

“I wish,” said Dorothy, “he hadn’t given up his business when he 
went in this thing. They say he’s such a splendid mining engineer 
and earned a handsome income. Aren’t you afraid, dear, if this 
doesn’t come out just as you expect, he might try to cause trouble 
for you?” 

“There, now, sweetheart! let’s not anticipate. ‘Sufficient unto the day/ 
et cetera, you know.” 

“I know, dearest, but I sometimes think our trouble is often to be 
found in our not anticipating and so providing against the ugly things 
to come. And I know you’re worried awfully, even if you do pretend 
not to be. Don’t you think, dear, it would be better to let the busi- 
ness go as Mr. Storey advises, and pay your present debts off as best 
you can, instead of holding on and so making more? You’ve got a 
good position and we could take a cheaper flat and be so happy.” 

“Little one,” he replied, “you don’t understand. What could I 
accomplish on a salary small as mine? We would exist and that 
would be about all. As to liquidating the obligations I’ve contracted 
now, a hundred years would scarce suffice. I’ve had to borrow, you 
see dear, to hold my end up in the deal, and I simply must pay Mr. 
Hope back soon. He’s advanced me money until I’m actually ashamed 
to meet him at the League. You see how essential it is therefore, 
that I hold on until our ship comes in.” 

“Van, dear” — her voice was earnest and her eyes eloquent of love 

“I do appreciate how much it means to you and what an awful dis- 
appointment it will be if anything goes wrong. You’ve made so 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


many plans and want to do so much; and you know, dearest, don’t 
you, that I’m not thinking of myself? I can live anywhere with you, 
and I could sew, or work, or help along some way if the worst should 
come. But it’s you, dearie; you’ve suffered so much already, and 
your big heart gets you all tangled up — promising and trying to bring 
about so much 

“Sweetheart mine,” said the man, pushing back his chair; “I don’t 
believe that Providence instills high aspirations in a man without pro- 
viding means entirely adequate for their achievement. Somewhere 
there lies the key to my success. I propose to dig, and hunt, and 
fight until it’s found, regardless of torn clothing or of scars.” 

“You know though, Van,” the gentle voice replied; “sometimes 
our gaze is turned so high we miss the good things lying at our feet. 
The days and months pass by in figuring on happiness to come. Why 
not permit a little sunshine to enter our lives today? If we fail to 
practice being happy now, how can we expect to enjoy it in a larger 
measure later on?” 

Anholt, walking around the table, encircled Dorothy with his arms 
and pressed his lips against her cheek. “Happiness, they say, is the 
synonym for song. Our practice shall begin right here, my love, 
tonight.” 


I 143 1 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER XVI. 

On November the nineteenth, the rapid succession of ominous 
events, disastrous both to Anholt’s peace of mind and to his hopes 
and prospects for eventual relief, culminated in the return to Mobile 
harbor of the Schooner Kent , after days of buffeting against the gales. 
It is questionable whether during the preceding week the man had 
experienced an hour of uninterrupted sleep or rest. Stockman, the 
broker, first engaged to prepare the company’s application for a cor- 
poration charter, and subsequently designated as its fiscal agent in 
anticipation of a stock flotation if the quality of the guano justified, 
had, sub rosa, given Anholt an inkling of surreptitious actions on 
Professor Rosseau’s part. This information, when considered with 
advices the young man already possessed pertaining to recent jour- 
neyings of the mining engineer to Washington, appeared portentious 
of a “double cross,” to use Anholt’s own words. On -hearing it he had 
hastened to Jersey City and boarded the first south bound train. Six 
hours later he sat in a recess of a room in the State Department, 
studying the mass of documents bearing on the subject which for the 
moment was lying nearest to his heart. Few who have occasion to 
consult these files, but are astonished at the jumbled state in which 
the records invariably are found, or at the inexplicable unconcern and 
negligence with which the employee left in charge dumps them on 
the first convenient table for any inquiring visitor to read. To with- 
draw, amend or insert a document at will, is a privilege one might 
believe conceded to every one, judging by the clerk’s indifferent air. 
To what extent, if any, such action has occurred, obviously remains 
unknown ; but true it is, that with the passing of administrations and 
of years the more involved the records seem, and the more conflict- 
ing grows the evidence of ownerships and rights. 

Among these papers, Anholt found an instrument that, causing him 
to start at first, had later on perusal, been provocative of a curious 
smile. It was a contract, filed the day before, and made between the 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


present owners of the guano grants and Professor Jean Rosseau, in 
which the stipulation ran, that should Anson Van Anholt default for 
any reason whatsoever in the payment of the additional option money 
nearly due, his option thus abrogated, should' for a consideration 
specified, be conveyed to Rosseau or such parties as he might desig- 
nate. 

Two days later the filing of another contract enriched still further 
the voluminous assortment of red ribboned sheets, apropos of which 
new document Anholt had muttered to himself; “I think that’ll hold 
him for awhile.” 

Suffering under a poignant mental tension he had listened with a 
critical ear to each word uttered by his friends, fearful lest such words 
might bear a double interpretation, unflattering or inimical to himself. 
Thus, frequently, expressions made with the best intent, were, by his 
sensitive mind construed into phrases meaning the exact reverse. 
Not but what hints were being bandied well about incapable of con- 
struction in other than a derogatory light; and these, quick to reach 
the ears of creditors, helped to leaven the feeling of distrust until the 
least of them — butcher, baker and their kind — transformed his home 
from a haven of content into a fort besieged by emissaries of the men 
he owed. Once, tantalized beyond endurance by the more aggres- 
sive of the lot, and confident of his ability to anticipate their presenta- 
tion by a substantial deposit in his bank, he undertook to pay the debts 
by checks; a proceeding that by reason of his inability to raise the 
funds to meet them resulted in a bigger tempest than before. Dis- 
claiming any feeling of annoyance or alarm to Storey, Hope and 
Bishop, and resolutely frowning down their repeated tenders of assist- 
ance, he struggled valiantly to retard the inevitable end. Dorothy, 
now the crucial time had come, forgot his blind and heedless disre- 
gard of her advice — advice, which had it been adopted, might have 
made their burden less, and ignoring her own convictions encouraged 
him to hope. With loyal and courageous heart she prayed the grant- 
ing of the one thing that apparently could save them now from ruin — the 
early and successful termination of the expedition sent to southern seas. 
In accentuation of his cumulative troubles, Anholt learned that 

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Samuel Withers now held through purchase a solitary share of the 
guano company’s stock; a holding, small as it was, doubtless suffi- 
cient for the end he had in view. This knowledge effectually coun- 
terbalanced the worried man’s feeling of relief at Essingham’s resig- 
nation from the Police Department. If, to presage his complete and 
final Waterloo additional complications were required, they were pro- 
vided in the apprehension on a burglary charge, of an East Side lad — 
a protege of his, who luxuriated in the cognomen of Happy-go-lucky 
Joe, a title prefixed on the records of the Department by the baptismal 
name of Joel Makepeace Higgins. Anholt, in a rather inglorious 
attempt to sidetrack him into the narrow groove, had requested him 
through the mail to call and talk it over — a communication which, 
when discovered on the boy, insured some pointed if misleading com- 
ments by the press — a gratuitous exposure which Mr. Carter held, 
despite the warm protests of Dixon, necessitated Anholt’s withdrawal 
from all connection with their firm. 

All of this will indicate the position of the man and the unenviable 
light in which his acts were being viewed. It likewise illustrates 
how easily good intentions run to waste; how surely desolation fol- 
lows in the wake of rash, impulsive acts ; and further, how the most 
unselfish man, unless he places strong restraint upon himself, will 
find his generous nature a stepping stone to deepest trouble, if not 
indeed, to sin. The way of Stanley Hope, when all is said and done, 
remains the sole highway to earthly peace, to Christ’s dominions, and 
to a sure fulfillment of our hopes. To temporize with wrong, even in 
an infinitesimal degree is to eliminate all prospects of either happiness 
or rest. This was the truth that now stood out pre-eminent in An- 
holt’s sick and tortured mind. 

The ship at last was in; analysis had been made, and the cargo 
proved no more valuable than pure dirt. Professor Rosseau, acting 
promptly on the first telegraphic word had hastened to Mobile. His 
report confirmed the worst fears entertained. The vessel’s log; the 
expert’s detailed record of his work ; the full cargo of worthless stuff, 
all bore witness to a duty faithfully performed. Of marketable guano 
there was none. The evidence was conclusive, apparently unimpeach- 

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able and clear. Anholt, who had received the information over the 
telephone, threatened for an instant to collapse. Dorothy, standing 
by him, and startled by the tense expression and ghastly pallor of his 
face, endeavored in her own brave way to cheer him into speech. In 
impassioned outcry she knew that he was safe. Only in a silent mood 
like this did she feel his danger lay. 

“Please go out, dear, and shut the door. I want to think.” The 
hollow voice seemed borne from far beyond the room. No accent; 
none of the rise and fall in tone that ordinarily helped to give his 
spoken words their charm ; these were merely articulated, nothing 
more. For just a fraction of time the woman’s eyes were turned 
longingly, anxiously on his. Bending over, she kissed the fevered 
brow; moved to the door, and after a final glance at the discouraged 
man closed it and sought refuge in her room. More lonely than 
Anholt himself, her tears were shed not because of her own suffering, 
but because of his. 

Left alone, he staggered on rising, like a man in drink. He was 
mentally and physically unwell. The darkened room seemed ten- 
anted with the spectres of his buried aspirations. The last illusion 
faded from his brain ; hope was a memory ; ambition for the moment 
seemed suppressed. Nothing but the blank walls of despair; the 
gibes and threats of fellow men ; the certainty of absolute, heart-rend- 
ing ruin, was manifest for the moment to his mind. Nothing? Note 
the faint, though radiant smile that finally creeps across his face, 
breathing its story of ineffable tenderness and love. Note the stiffen- 
ing muscles, the upright posture of the head as the thought of his 
possession springs momentarily back to life. Oh! love — divine, uncon- 
querable, unreasonable, at times apparently unjust! Preserver of ambi- 
tion, body guard to hope, savior of man’s noblest attributes, clarifier of his 
faults — what man in thy possession can with permanence despond ? How 
manifestly bright the augury of happy issue and success, when plus the 
ownership of this prize, loyal and proved friendships gleam from out the 
firmament of the past and beckon one like evening stars, to repose, to 
solitude and peace ! 


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Two days later a party of stockholders encircled the massive oaken 
table in the room reserved by Broker Stockman for just such purposes 
as it served today. Anholt, Rosseau, Withers, Cunningham, Patterson, 
Stockman, and a dozen others, called together by hastily written notes 
comprised the group. Rosseau, the president of the recently incorporated 
company, after calling the meeting to order, waited patiently until the 
minutes of the preceding Stockholders’ and Directors’ meetings had been 
read, and until after Stockman, as Treasurer, had submitted his report 
of the company’s finances — a report chiefly noticeable for its brevity, and 
for the absence of assets, either cash or otherwise, promising partial 
reimbursement to the men whose money had been lost. Then, Rosseau, 
who had prepared an exhaustive report covering the company’s history, 
the experimental voyage and its results, read it carefully, slowly, and with 
dispassionate, even voice. At no place in it did he offer criticism or 
comment. The facts were stated 1 — that was all. When finished, his 
black eyes moved with a mathematical precision characteristic of the man, 
from face to face around the table. Not one was spared and each felt 
that to some extent he had betrayed the substance of his thoughts. When 
he resumed his seat, all turned as if by prearrangement and directed their 
gaze upon the man because of whose captivating word-pictures they had 
suffered loss. As Vice-President of the corporation his position opposite 
Rosseau enabled him to note with practically a single sweep of the eyes 
the battery of expressive glances focused on his face. In response to the 
mute request for an explanation he arose and stood facing them for a 
moment without a word. There was as little of bravado or assurance 
depicted in his countenance as there was of cringing fear or shame. Ex- 
tremely pale, with tell tale eyes messaging their story of his sleepless 
nights, he appeared less the culprit than the bearer of some sorrow en- 
tirely disassociated from the issue now at hand. When he spoke, the 
expressionless, measured monotony of his words, like the chant of some 
remembered verse, fell upon his listeners’ ears with effect far deeper than 
had he voiced his attitude in some passionate appeal. Prepared for the 
latter by reason of their knowledge of the man, his manner by the 
very nature of the contrast, impressed them with a fuller sense of the 
suffering he endured. 


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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Gentlemen,” he began. “You have heard our President’s report of 
our disastrous venture. Comments from me would be superfluous — 
I assume uncared for. Until recently, with one or two exceptions, you 
were all my friends. Because of that each one of you must bear some 
portion of the loss. I argued — you listened. I believed my statements — 
so did you. Official records, analytical reports, published history, all 
helped to stamp my words as true. If I was wrong they are wrong. If 
these islands offer only such cargoes as we secured, every leading gov- 
ernment has been humbugged for years. It’s our experiment against the 
world’s. I still believe the world, is right. I’m going some day to find 
out. Now, I’m bankrupt, ruined, and in debt. Professor Rosseau hopes 
by reason of this fact to secure possession of these grants. You can 
place your own construction on his desire. He’s filed a contract looking 
to that end. The contract, he imagines valid in case I default in making 
the payments specified in the option I proposed transferring to you. 
Don’t interrupt me, please!” as Rosseau started to explain. “I’ll soon 
be done. His contract, I have claimed is void. I hold another option — 
a new one, duly filed — on these same rights and islands, and covering a 
period of two years more if my contention is upheld. The guano laws 
guarantee protection only to citizens of our land. Contracts made with 
aliens are to all intents and purposes null and void when dealing with 
these rights. The law has been sustained. Professor Rosseau is an 
alien. When a boy he ran away from home. He came here and pros- 
pered, but still remains unnaturalized — a citizen of France. I propose to 
hold this option in trust for all of you. I propose to ascertain for myself, 
the truth about these properties. Not soon — I’ve got to earn the money 
first — but someday. My accounting will be fair to all. Gentlemen, in 
sacred confidence I bared my soul to one of you. He betrayed me. 
Another here has helped to drive me to the wall. His name is Withers. 
I’m down — I’m out. To neither in this hour of trial do I bear malice. 
I am not blameless and I’ll pay the bill. If bitter comments are ready 
on the lips of any here I ask for but a moment more. You can revel then 
to your hearts’ desire in censure, threats and hate. But before you pass 
the sentence give thought to me, then look well and carefully on your- 
selves. What have I gained through loss of yours? You are disap- 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


pointed. I am suffering, ruined, helpless, sick. Compare conditions 
first — then talk. I don’t want sympathy or help. I do want justice based 
on an unprejudiced consideration of my acts. Gentlemen, you hold my 
resignation. I’m going now. I bid you all good day.” 

Anholt stepped backward, lifted his hat from off the rack, and passed 
out into the hall. Half a minute later Cunningham and Patterson had 
grasped him by the hand. “Cheer up, old chap !” the former cried. “You 
want to keep that upper lip in line. I say though,” he added as the lift- 
descended into view; “I don’t often swear, but of that bunch in there I 
must say, darn ’em, and darn ’em bad !” 


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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The day succeeding that of the company meeting was cheerless, gloomy, 
cold. The kaleidoscopic changes of the dark and lowering skies were 
accompanied by spasmodic showers— showers which ere they reached 
the ground were caught and eddied in chill, fitful gusts of wind, attacking 
man and beast alike with benumbing, penetrating force. Like unto the 
lapse of sunshine into night, so had the placid summer season retreated 
before the ruddy fall’s advance. The latter, now in turn, because of 
warfare waged between the elements, seemed prematurely doomed. 

Within one house at least, the dispiriting conditions were analogous to 
those without. Despondency had placed its chilling blight upon the 
heart. The war of passions took the place of that of wind and rain ; 
depressed minds the place of clouds. Here too, pacific, tranquil summer 
had succumbed to a contentious winter’s sway. Burlap protected furni- 
ture, curtainless windows, and empty, mocking walls, silently proclaimed 
the breaking of a home. With night’s approach the devastation seemed 
complete. Anholt, gnawing viciously at the pipestem in his mouth, en- 
deavored to ward of the breakdown he felt was imminent. Dorothy on her 
knees, packing the last few trinkets in her trunk, restrained the tears by 
mere exercise of will. Marie Von Bonhorst, who immediately her work 
was finished, had hurried up to them, sat by the window staring at the 
darkening sky. The man, who long since had exhausted his vocabulary 
in seeking phrases fitting and forcible enough to express his opinion of 
his self-termed asinary course dreaded the approach of night. Some of 
their furniture had been sold to provide a temporary living fund for 
Dorothy. The rest, to be stored against such happier time when they 
should again call it into use would be removed tomorrow, and tomorrow 
with Dorothy and her husband meant the parting of the ways. She, 
would remain for the present with Marie. He, with eyes and footsteps 
turned toward the west, would battle once more against his record and 
himself. 


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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“There isn’t a blessed thing, dearest,” he had said to her, ” on which 
to make the start except your love and confidence, and such little courage 
as I still have left. But pshaw ! dear,” patting her on the shoulder, “that’s 
quite enough for any man, or ought to be at least.” 

“I just know Van, you’ll succeed,” she had replied; “especially since 
you’ve promised never, never to ask any man to put his money in a deal 
again. And I know you’ll keep that promise dear, won’t you?” Ilis 
affirmatory nod had brought a light back to her eyes. 

His own concern was less directed to his prospective struggle for re- 
habilitation than to the necessity for severing relations between himself 
and his staunchest friends, .with his consequent inability to participate 
further in their work. He had looked upon the men he helped largely 
as children of his own, and had watched their progress with solicitude and 
care. In their success he gloried; in their failures smypathized. With 
true parental faith he had persisted in believing their ultimate regenera- 
tion would be wrought. Of all his sorrows the leaving of this task of 
love appeared the hardest he must bear. He had reasoned his success at 
this would furnish a stronger leverage in the prosecution of his greater 
work. He thought perhaps these very men might lend themselves to the 
experimentation of his, as yet, embryonic theory of the perfect human 
rule. And his theorization along this line contrasted brightly with his 
attitude on every other cherished aim, in that among them all it remained 
the only one whose consummation had not been irremediably prevented 
by his impulsive, devil-may-care and enthusiastic way of doing things. 
In this he apparently had felt that time, experience and the logic of events 
would prove the essential* factors in accomplishing the desired result. 
And — singular that he conceded it at all — one all important need impressed 
itself ineradicably on his mind ; namely, the proving by his record of a 
worthiness to stand as sponsor to the cause; an undertaking one might 
believe unsurmountable now considered in the light of recent sad events. 
Perhaps within the inscrutable mind that frames the law of life this need 
of Anholt’s had been recognized. In the surging Maelstrom of his woes 
he found a life buoy in one solitary truth — a truth that offered him before 
had been neglected, or at best put to but occasional use. A truth whose 
full power now was evident and which he clutched and fastened onto 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


with a grasp promising to last through all the years. The one great truth 
that Stanley Hope had emphasized when first they met — honesty without 
qualification — the non-existence of any end so worthy as to justify ques- 
tionable or dishonest means. Who can say that Anholt, convert at last 
to this fundamental, just decree, had not through his misfortune moved 
one step nearer to his goal ? 

The night before, his farewell visitation to the under world was made, 
Storey, Bishop and himself had made the rounds. No dependent had 
been missed. The care of each he charged upon his friends. Not one 
had guessed that the burden on his heart was heavier than their own. 
Then in the quiet atmosphere of Storey’s home the three had talked and 
planned. It was a conference that lasting to the morning hours had sent 
Anholt forth encouraged to fight the battle of his life. Despite their 
protests he had maintained his one decision to the end. He would accept no 
aid. No man or friend henceforth should loan, advance or give him any- 
thing. This being settled other things had been discussed. Two unan- 
swered problems weighed on Anholt’s mind. In one he sought the motive 
directing the acts of Samuel Withers. The other appertained to Bishop 
and his partnership with sin. The first, none of the three could answer. 
The latter, neither man conversant with the facts would offer to explain. 
“Because,” said Bishop, “the moment hasn’t come.” To which Anholt 
had replied, “I’ll try to make my patience and my curious nature jibe. 
The first, dear Bishop, henceforth shall be, as the last already is, exhaust- 
less as the sea.” Of other things Storey summarized the impressions 
both he and Bishop shared in a few short and earnest words. 

“Frankly, friend,” he had vouchsafed; “we’re both inclined to extend 
congratulations on your getting in this mess. We might have taken you 
to task at times, as you will recall I tried just once to do, and perhaps 
saved you this temporary pain. But it had to come sometime. It’s over 
now and you’ll find yourself morally stronger than you ever were before. 
Your skirts are a little frayed and spotted I must admit, but they bear no 
traces of intentional wrong. You were sorely tempted and your failurq 
to adopt dishonorable tactics to save yourself, stamps you in our eyes as 
genuine and twenty-four carat gold. Wherever you decide to set your 
standard up, my friend, we know you’ll keep it there unsullied until we 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


join you. Of the three I believe that now you’re farthest from the dan- 
ger line. We all can profit by the experience you have had. Let us avoid 
the pitfalls of an impulsive generosity as religiously as we try by common 
sense philanthropy to do our Master’s will. In our small sphere as men, 
entangling alliances are as fruitful in suspicions and heavy penalties as 
in international affairs. Let us hew close to the line, satisfied to use as 
tools the talents given us. That is all our Father asks. Anholt — friend 
— Bishop’s prayers and mine follow you in your fight. That’s the most — 
restrained by your decision, apparently we can do. We pride ourselves 
on claiming you as our friend. We owe you thanks, not alone for the 
broader field of action you’ve revealed to us, but because, buffeted about, 
knocked down and trampled over as you have been, you’ve come through 
cleaner than you were at first. Your material loss can’t weigh to the 
slightest degree against your moral gain. In that, my friend, and in 
your consistently following the path you’ve now laid out, is to be found 
Bishop’s hope and mine. The hope that you, and he and I will some day, 
some how, work out the problem in our hearts. My friends, will you, 
on this our parting night, join me for a time in kneeling at the Master’s 
feet?” 


L 154 J 


PART TWO 


CHAPTER I. 


In but one solitary particular does Chicago, Empire City of the West, 
descend to the plane of a monotonous consistency. Her streets and 
boulevards, planned with geometrical precision, but defiant both to con- 
venience and to art, stretch to the four points of the compass with a regu- 
larity tiresomely unvarying and pronounced. The negligible number of 
such thoroughfares as run diagonally across the map are, like exceptions, 
mere incidents that prove the rule. Conceive now an extensive area of 
land, devoid of gentle undulations, and level as the home of Neptune, lying 
contiguous to an inland sea. On this permit the tracing by imagination 
of a city outlined as above. Cover it in fancy with edifices built of wood 
and steel and stone, with the extreme east center — adjacent to the Lake — 
favored with the tallest and the best, and physical Chicago appears to 
mental view. Here, though, endeth sameness. In all other things the 
spirit of her social, mental, religious and commercial being runs rampant 
and wild. Her life by day and night, as if in retaliation for the circum- 
stances rendering her physically infirm, inclines to the extreme. In wealth 
and poverty; in religions, races, politics and morals; in charities and in 
crimes; in commercial ethics and in professional progress; in education, 
literature and art; in aims, expectations and in hopes; in methods of 
municipal legislation and control; in all the diversified relations incident 
to man’s transactions with his fellowman ; in superlatives, both good and 
bad, Chicago, the extremists’ Mecca, the fanatics’ Rome, retains her 
pre-eminent, if in some respects unenviable repute. Whether her atmos- 
pheric vagaries are the reason for, or because of the varied and unsettled 
humors of her population, or whether by mere coincidence her weather 
seems as fickle as herself, is of small import. It may be that nature, in 
ordaining the rehearsal of her works upon this stage prior to starting 
them on tour, reasoned that an opportunity to study her climatic products 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


at first hand would be a gracious and deserved tribute to that city’s whirl- 
wind growth. Because of this, all kinds of weather — or if you prefer, 
no kind at all, can be considered typical of this Metropolis of the Lakes. 

On the morning of which we write, the elements were in a sullen, angry 
mood. A persistent, drizzling rain had ushered in the first day of the 
year’s last month. The heavy pall of soft coal smoke from the Illinois 
Central’s engines on the Lake Front, swung gradually across Michigan 
avenue — on past Wabash, State and Dearborn, until it merged at last 
with similar obscuring cloud-like masses from the west and south. Not- 
withstanding it was nearly noon, the lights were burning undisturbed; 
their warm glow beckoning through the fog and mist in cordial invitation 
to the passers-by — that is, to those possessing wherewithal to purchase 
offered wares. In a narrow doorway on Van Buren street, near where it 
intersects the broad and busy Clark, a figure, minus overcoat and with 
hands sunk deep in trousers’ pockets, stood gazing contemplatively at 
those who passed. His clothing, of quality undoubtedly good, was damp 
and in sad need of tailor’s goose. His linen, such as was distinguishable 
behind the turned-up collar of his coat, was mussed and soiled. The 
face was dark with two days’ growth of beard. The hair, though care- 
fully brushed, was becoming inconveniently long. His entire appearance 
told of recent better days, but of a critical and most disheartening now. 

“Well, your lordship — one near him might have heard him thus solilo- 
quize — “erstwhile owner of rich guano rights and high mogul of the 
seven seas, suppose you plan your coup d’ etat for rolls and coffee, quick ! 
This,” he continued, “is about what Bob would call ‘certainly th’ limit an’ 
fer fair.’ Nowhere to go ; nothing to do ; nothing to eat, and less to 
wear every time the sun goes down. Anyhow, that’s ended!” glancing 
down at himself ; “there isn’t another blessed thing to soak. I would like 
to get in that hotel, though, long enough to get a decent shirt. Pretty 
tough, that, to find your room door locked and to be politely told to keep 
away until your bill is paid. And that employment secretary over on 
La Salle street — twenty-five cents before he’ll book me and advises cleaner 
clothes when I return. A fine association of young men he leads, though, 
judging solely by the building! George Harry!” — as a gust of cold rain 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


struck him in the face — “this, next to that ten cent bed I tackled last 
night, is certainly the ne plus ultra , as Powers would remark, of personal 
inconvenience. ‘Ergo,’ quoting Bishop — confound it, I wish I could forget 
those fellows for a while ! — I’ll inventory.” Methodically his hands went 
through his pockets. “Cash reserve, one cent. That means a postal to 
the little girl. Food reserve, none ; in process of digestion, though, a half 
pint of guaranteed germ proof water. Clothing available for trading 
purposes, not a thing. Jewelry, nil. Prospects, one job addressing 
envelopes with a Dearborn street directory concern next week. Meantime, 
nothing. Questionable assets, nerve and a dead sure certainty of win- 
ning out. But,” he added savagely after a pause, “the whole lot bunched 
together wouldn’t buy a half way smell.” 

For a half hour longer he stood looking moodily at the passing cars 
and people. Once or twice he stepped aside to make room for some other 
unfortunate who after tarrying for a short time and eyeing him curiously, 
decamped to quarters experience had proved to be more comfortable as 
well as more likely to provide a drink. 

“This experience,” he observed to himself after a time, “may be 
essential as a training course and lesson, but it’s deucedly hard to assimi- 
late the last without a little substantial sustenance coming along at times. 
Great idea” — shrugging his shoulders — “to point the moral to a man and 
then to starve him in its learning! There’s one thing sure, I’ve got to 
knuckle to that Salvation Army game until next week. It’s tough enough, 
but honorable, and God knows I’ve done my share by them when I had 
the means !” With a clutch at his coat collar in an effort to secure more 
protection for his neck, he stepped out from the recess of the hall. Hesi- 
tating for an instant as a sudden shifting of the wind drove the chilly 
drizzle in his eyes, he seemed about to reconsider his decision. Then with 
the audible exclamation, “It’s a long walk, but here goes!” his jaws closed 
with a snap and he turned down Van Buren, then north to Jackson 
Boulevard, west again across the bridge, south to Harrison and west 
once more toward the place he sought. 

The Salvation Army as an efficient, successful and unique working 
organization, stands pre-eminent in its chosen field. Its results are beyond 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


the power of statisticians to compile. Courageous, yet modest; aggres- 
sive, without undue sensationalism ; patient, consistent and tireless ; caring 
neither for fulsome praise nor dismayed by critic’s rant, it penetrates and 
pleads the cause of Christianity in every quarter of the Globe. Never 
pausing in self-congratulation at success ; never sitting down to compute 
the number of souls already saved; never satisfied until it has accom- 
plished a little more, it represents in a tangible, intelligent and convincing 
form the illimitable possibilities of a loyal adherence to the teachings of 
our Christ. Whether in Victoria, Fourteenth or State streets, its policy 
is the same. More than in any other association of human kind, with 
forces anything like so large, has it succeeded in subjugating the individual 
to the cause, thereby eliminating the dangerous factor of self-interest, 
while in practicing the precepts of its creed it has influenced to an 
almost miraculous extent the conversion of those who doubt. In its purely 
business management it offers instructive lessons to the most astute of 
financiers. We, however, are just now interested in but one phase of the 
business side, and that the manner of conducting the so-called Army 
Stores, toward one of which Anholt had turned his steps. These stores 
usually consist of a store room proper, in which goods are offered to the 
poor at prices ridiculously small ; a receiving room or warehouse, in which 
they are mended, cleaned and stored until desired for sale ; a dormitory 
building in which the men who do the work both eat and sleep, and a 
stable for the housing of horses, carts and harness. The Adjutant in 
charge is necessarily a member of the Army. The store clerk, the ware- 
house hands and the men who drive about the city soliciting contributions 
of papers, clothing, furniture and the like, are recruited largely from the 
great world of the unemployed — men devoid of means and often hopes, 
but who retain that one God-given grace — a self respect compelling them 
to earn such food and lodging as they get. Plus their living, these men 
receive a small cash sum, averaging perhaps a dollar each for one week’s 
work. Nothing is required of them in the way of religious professions, 
statements of their record, promises, or expressions of regret for omis- 
sions or commissions of the past. Their presence there is ample evidence 
of need. In securing its relief on conditions of this kind they preserve one 

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trait of manhood, on which if they prefer, they may safely start to build 
again. In the conduct of the Army Stores there is no loss nor waste. 
Everything is turned to good account. The papers are gathered, sorted, 
baled and sold in full ton lots. Clothing, household utensils, books, medi- 
cines — all are made to serve some useful end. People whose poverty pre- 
vents their paying even the small price asked for the goods receive them 
free. Most, however, preserve their independence by paying — after much 
haggling, as a rule, ’tis true — for such things as they need. 

Through personal contact and co-operation with Army workers and 
with the unfortunate class they aimed to serve, Anholt had familiarized 
himself with this phase of the organization’s work. In this knowledge, 
derived under conditions so entirely dissimilar from those existing at the 
present time, he had discerned an avenue of honorable escape from his 
serious predicament. In the consciousness that he had liberally contributed 
both in time and money to its cause he derived no small sense of satis- 
faction now, encouraging him to believe himself well within his rights 
in taking advantage of this feature of the Army’s policy. Possessing to 
an extraordinary degree the saving trait of adaptability, he felt no mis- 
givings either as to the manner of his reception or as to his ability to 
adjust himself to surroundings radically different both in the personnel 
of his associates and in bodily comforts from those known heretofore. 
His temperament, in this regard was a happy one and characterized by his 
almost invariable success in winning the respect and confidence of men, 
who, prodded by misfortune, were accustomed to eye with suspicion any act 
or person promising them relief. In whatever circle of society he moved, 
men instinctively regarded him as a wearer of their brand and tendered 
him their confidence as readily as they hearkened to his suggestions or 
advice. In his prompt seizure of the task allotted him that day, and in the 
nonchalant air with which he tumbled into his half of the narrow bed at 
night, ample proof was given, both of this phase of his character, and of 
his irrevocable determination to adhere without deviation to the exalted 
moral standard he had set before him as necessary to his rehabilitation in 
the world. 


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CHAPTER II. 

“Where’s that new fellow — Holt or Bolt, or whatever his name is? 
Here, you!” as the object of his inquiry, leading an indifferent looking, 
dark bay horse, came into view ; “git a hustle on with that nag. We got 
a fairy trip today and want to drag our load down early.” 

“Right you are !” was the cheery reply, as the recruit backed his equine 
companion into the shafts. His senior, who traveled under the pseudonym 
of Jerry, eyed him critically. 

“Say, are you a Cockney — or maybe from the Provinces? No? Well 
that’s cross pond lingo, anyhow,” he added, as Anholt nodded his head. 

“Just picked it up over there, I guess.” The careless reply was lost 
on Jerry, who having satisfied himself as to the integrity of the harness, 
threw the lines over the dash board and jumped into the covered vehicle, 
motioning Anholt to follow. Later, to the latter’s courteous declination of 
the proffered chew, Jerry, as the outfit turned from Harrison street toward 
the north, gave a significant shrug of his broad shoulders. Supplement- 
ing his generous “nibble,” as he termed it, with a pipeful of the weed, 
carefully cut from the self-same plug, he puffed steadily and silently away. 
Anholt, despite his hungering for the companionship and solace of a 
smoke, preferred the solitude of his thoughts to the possibly unilluminat- 
ing discussion bound to result from a request for tobacco made to his 
fellow unfortunate on his right. The weather lord, consistent in his con- 
tradictory moods, had impressed Old Sol into active service, and with a 
supreme disregard for dates or the harmony of things, had sandwiched an 
Indian summer day between his more appropriate displays of wintry 
goods. Stirred eventually to speech by the exhilarating air, Jerry removed 
the clay pipe from between his lips, squirted the accumulation of dark 
tobacco juice upon the asphalt street, shifted the tobacco itself to the 
other cheek, and turning to Anholt, said : 

“We’re goin’ up to Buena Park, which is the cinchiest spot there is fer 
our graft. The Adjutant don’t let nobody work it but me — leastwise not 

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now. Ever been up there? No? Well, it’s high toned, all right, an’ the 
liberalist bunch in Chi. Last trip I pulled down the load in less’n two 
hours. It were the swellest lot of stuff the Adjutant’s got in yet, so he 
says to me when I hauls up in the yard. With me’n you humpin’ ourselves 
we’ll shake the place by noon.” For a time Jerry continued chewing 
vigorously, ruminating the meanwhile whether he should favor the other 
with further speech or not. Deciding finally in the affirmative, he turned 
to his companion with the remark : 

“Now, lookee here! I’m goin’ to put you next. You see here ’tis. 
We haul up off Evanston avenue somewheres and work different sides 
o’ the street. No front doors, mind you ! — alius go round ’nd when they 
shows up give ’em a nice, polite bow so’s they get wise ’tyour not a hobo, 
and spring your little song. There’s nothin’ more to ’t. If there’s any- 
thing cornin’, you’ll git it — if there ain’t, move on. Onct in a while they’ll 
top you off with a coin or somethin’ for yourself. But you’ve got to 
show the Adjutant it’s straight, though. About eatin’ ? Sure, that’s fixed 
’nd I got the price. That’s the only comeback to this here run — no 
decent grub. They renigged on the booze biz up there so’s nothin’s doin’ 
with schooners or free layouts, ’nd you’ve got to stand for a regular 
eatin’ joint. What d’you say,” he added suddenly, as if fearful he might 
lose the idea before he gave it words, “to makin’ a quick play up there so’s 
to git a man’s feed at Mulligan’s or someplace else like’t on the way back ?” 
So enthused was he over his inspiration that he pulled old Dobbin up with 
a sudden jerk and gazed expectantly at Anholt’s face. 

“I’m not heavy on the schooner proposition,” answered the latter ; “you 
can drink them both, and welcome, but I’ll certainly be with you on the 
eating end.” 

As Dobbin, startled from his reveries by Jerry’s shout, moved patiently 
on again, the latter, beginning to refill his pipe, remarked : “When I was 
a young fellow ’nd had the chanct I couldn’t think of nothin’, ’nd now 
when it’s no good I’m showin’ the most surprisin’ form.” Then, unex- 
pectedly, to Anholt, thereby calling him back to earth: “D’jer ever booze 
much ?” 

“Not yet !” came the unthinking reply. 

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“Not yet!” Jerry repeated, as he struck a match on the dash board. 
“Well, take it from me, bud, change your mind, ’nd don’t !” an observa- 
tion followed by a prolonged silence on the part of both. 

Less than three hours later, the wagon laden to the limit of its capacity, 
was moving south. Jerry, with mind intent on his prospective feast, 
prodded the bay horse with a vigor giving rise to serious doubts in the 
latter’s mind as to his driver’s sanity. Anholt, mentally reviewing his first 
series of attempts to corner, in Charity's name, the available supply of cast 
offs, wondered no less at the consideration given him as an agent in the 
Salvation Army’s cause, than at the interest the people evidenced in its 
welfare and endeavors. Jerry, for the first time in his experience second 
in results obtained in canvassing this particular territory with another, 
eyed his companion with increased curiosity and respect. Restrained by 
the inviolable unwritten law of his kind, discountenancing inquiry as to an 
associate’s past, he could not disabuse his mind of the belief that Anholt 
was a specimen so radically different from any other he had heretofore 
encountered as to justify a little subterfuge in endeavoring to ascertain 
just who he was; the result being that the other’s noncommittal answers 
had piqued his curiosity beyond its original somewhat excited state. “I 
ain’t got gray matter enough ; that’s the trouble” — explaining his failure 
to himself. “I’m goin’ to put Davey up aginst him tonight, that’s what. 
Maybe he kin do it. Git ep there, Dobbin !” he shouted, suddenly noticing 
that the wise animal, profiting by his driver’s cogitative mood had settled 
back into his normal gait. 

Coincident with winter’s approach, the drivers and helpers around the 
Army’s dormitory building, had pre-empted its basement as a suitable place 
for assembling after the supper hour — a place where they could smoke, 
gossip, decide current political and sociological problems, and in general 
accomplish with tongues and imagination, deeds which, if undertaken in 
reality, would land them either in Washington or the mad house. This 
clearing house for ifs, buts, might-have-beens and didn’ts, was probably 
tw r enty-five feet square, low, smoke begrimed, and dark. Two sputtering 
lamps, seldom cleaned, emitted a dismal light, which, filtering through 
the haze of vile smelling tobacco smoke, left the room’s occupants in prac- 

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tical obscurity — a situation not totally undesirable at times when rankling 
memories give signs of their existence in one’s face. In the exact center 
of the basement set the furnace, whose spreading, covered pipes fastened 
to the cross beams overhead, rendered walking in an upright position a 
dangerous and difficult task. In one corner was the first installment of 
the winter’s fuel supply; in another a pump and sink at which the men 
performed their ablutions. The third and fourth corners were the graves 
of miscellaneous assortments of odds and ends for which no earthly use 
had yet been found. A dozen or more boxes and a few infirm chairs 
placed around the inviting furnace and occupied by as many men of 
different ages, histories and abilities, and your mind’s eye holds an 
authentic picture of the scene in which Anholt, on the evening following 
his first trip with Jerry, was playing a temporary and inconspicuous part. 
Religious topics were tacitly tabooed. In fact, as Anholt afterward 
remarked, the whole thing brought to mind Madam Tussaud’s wax-work 
reproduction of Guy Fawkes and his gang figuring out the details of the 
great Gunpowder Plot. A half hour after the substantial supper of fried 
liver and potatoes had been washed down with a giant cup of really cred- 
itable coffee, the newest member of the group was appreciatively puffing 
away on a pipe which Jerry had managed to rake up for him. His 
thoughts, wandering far off toward the Atlantic shore, were interrupted by 
an observation made by an old, long whiskered fellow, who for some 
minutes had been waging a wordy combat with a young man at his side. 

“What we want,” he growled, “is more eddication or none at all.” 

“It seems to me, brother,” the other replied in a voice whose refined 
tones attracted Anholt’s attention, “that we’re doing pretty well as it is. 
We’re getting more schools every year and .” 

“That’s jist it, Davey,” the older man broke in; “it’s schools, schools, 
schools, and they don’t teach no more today than they did when I was a kid, 
exceptin’ music and sich like trinkets. I mean the free schools! They 
teach the youngsters jist enough to make ’em want more and that means 
if they get it the old man’s got to mortgage the farm and dig. Billy 
Jones goes to public school and he’s poor, and Billy Smith goes and he’s 
rich. Then they get through high school and they’re told if they want to 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


know more to plank down the green. So Billy Smith, who don’t want to 
know nothin’ more goes off to college because his old man’s got the 
dough and says so, and Billy Jones, who ain’t got the spondulix wants to 
go and can’t — and there you are. They’re both sore and neither gets what 
he wants. It’s like givin’ a hungry man a plate of soup and lettin’ him 
look *on’t the turkey and pie. ’Tain’t right, Davey, ’tain’t right ! It’s 
aggravatin’ and temptin’ ! 4 Tain’t in human nature for one feller 
standin’ to see another one get his brain chucked full because he’s got the 
price, and him havin’ to knock off jist when he’s gettin’ interested.” 

Anholt, who felt as if he were listening to a rough and tumble disser- 
tation on his own particular hobby, could not resist the temptation to have 
a word in the discussion. 

“Pardon me,” he observed; “but am I correct in inferring that you 
advocate government control of the higher institutions of learning — 
universities and the like ?” 

The old man, turned and looked at the shadowy face and figure of the 
speaker. “I don’t know what you infer,” he retorted, “but I do say a man 
ought to get as good an eddication free as he gets if he pays for it. Let 
them as wants to pay, pay; and let ’em have colleges, but them as can’t 
pay has got the right to schoolin’ jist as good. This government’s rich 
enough to back its lads up when they’ve got the brains, but ain’t got the 
cash. If a youngster’s got the sense he’s got as much right to be a 
doctor or a law shark free, as the dummy has that gets his papers now 
with nothin’ in his head but hot air. Then the old man at home can 
have a bust once in a while hisself.” 

“The trouble is, Sam,” commented the young fellow addressed as 
Davey; “by the time the poor boy gets through high school he’s needed 
at home to help out.” 

“He ain’t, nuther!” snorted the other. “If the old folks can stand it 
that long they can stand it a while longer, specially when he’ll be satisfied 
and worth somethin’ when he’s through. As ’tis, he mopes around and 
ain’t worth nothin’ and that’s how he winds up, jist like me and you — 
nothin’ !” 


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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 

“Still,” said Anholt, hoping to draw him out still further; “some of our 
most successful men never got beyond the high or grammar schools.” 

“No,” returned Sam,” and some didn’t get no schoolin’ at all. That 
ain’t sayin’ they wouldn’t ha’ been bigger men if they’d knowed more, and 
it ain’t sayin’ we wouldn’t have a heap more winners if we give ’em a 
chance. Mark my words, there’s goin’ to be a time when a man can learn 
what he wants, whether he’s got the dough or not, and when that time 
comes there won’t be no sich hollerin’ about the poor downtrod,” — a 
prediction to which, as the philosopher arose to borrow another pipe, 
Anholt offered a fervent “Amen,” adding to himself : “Anholt, old chap, 
you’re not quite the original genius you thought, eh?” 

“That lad, Davey,” explained Jerry later, after the object of his remark 
and his companion of the morning had finished a quiet conversation, of 
which, despite his efforts he failed to grasp the gist, “he’s studyin’ fer a 
commission. He was one of us onct, but now he’s the whole thing in the 
store. The Adjutant wouldn’t stand fer nobody throwin’ him down. He’s 
white, Davey is !” — a remark which Anholt many times in years to come 
remembered, and the truth of which he more than once confirmed. As 
he learned afterward, the lad’s history had not been altogether an enviable 
one. Delivered at birth to the whims of a capricious fate, his little, rosy- 
tinted form had been discovered by an officer at the Chicago Union 
Station, sleeping peacefully in a common wicker basket tucked beneath a 
seat. Snugly ensconced amid a wealth of dainty flannel wrappings, all 
of which were devoid of marks indicating ownership, the precious bundle 
had been gingerly carried by its discoverer to the nearest police station, 
and from there passed on to a convenient foundling institution. Here, in 
time, and by a process of reasoning as yet entirely unexplained, he became 
handicapped by the gratuitous imposition of a name — David Goliath 
Eastman, which was immediately abbreviated for the sake of convenience 
to the simpler form of Davey. With the flight of time the various stages 
of his growth were marked by the transferring of the little waif from one 
institution to another, until at last, turned loose, a newsboy on the streets, 
his conception of the moral code might reasonably have been expected to 
be considerably confused. So, too, with the obdurate facts of his grim 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


experience and necessity fresh upon his mind, adherence to that fixed 
principle of institution nurtured youths — “every man for himself and the 
devil take the hindermost” — might with equal reason been expected. Like 
unto the ways, though, of modern political chieftains, the probable and 
logical were relegated along with precedent to an obscure corner of life’s 
hall, available later, of course, should expediency demand; while idealistic 
theories and platforms fathered by wishes instead of unrelenting facts, 
formed the glittering, but illusive bait with which, as years went by, he 
had in vain endeavored to tempt success ; the result being much as was the 
case with Anholt. His platform, too badly carpentered, had gone to 
smash, leaving him, as a result of the catastrophe, among the flotsam of 
the human race. With a mentality inferior to Anholt’s in brilliancy, and 
with neither the latter’s experience nor dogged determination to compel 
eventual success, he had accepted his last rebuff as a direct mandate from 
Providence to subordinate his interests, theories and ambitions to the 
religious necessities of the times. Disregarding his personal predilec- 
tions for a career implying at least a modicum of the praise and admi- 
ration of his fellowmen, he avowed his intention of qualifying as a disciple 
in the Holy cause; an avowal explaining both his present situation and 
the easily discernible feeling of respect entertained toward him by his 
present associates of less spiritual inclinations. In figure slight, the 
symmetrical features, the dark blue eyes and light colored, curling hair, 
gave rise in the minds of those conversant with his past, to curious con- 
jectures both as to his parentage and future life. In the appearance of 
no other habitue of the basement rendezvous was there a sign of anything 
but the common story of misfortune attributable to moral weakness, 
drink, financial reverses and the like. And yet the very fact of their being 
here, as willing workers for such comforts as they had, placed them one 
niche higher in the social wall than were their brethren on the street. Nay, 
more than this. In them Anholt found living arguments to support opin- 
ions he had formed. Not a man here raised his voice against mere wealth, 
as such ; not one placed the responsibility for his present woes at a more 
fortunate person’s door; not one but felt he had his just deserts; not one 
approved the preachings of a creed that promised them material wealth 

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at another man’s expense; not one who did not feel that while equal 
advantages should be granted all to equip themselves for life’s cam- 
paign, with such concession made, one should in honor, then keep still — 
believing that contestants starting equal in the race would end precisely 
in the order of their ability and strength; a contest farcical in the extreme 
if disgruntled losers should insist on an equal participation in the prize. 
And — strange that confirmation of his views should come from men like 
these — not one believed that money, social rating, or any man’s decree 
could rightly figure as a basis on which to start the race. They held the 
only test of man is mind. Success and failure; happiness, sorrow and 
shame ; mistakes and faults ; commissions and omissions — all, are subor- 
dinate to, and because of, the workings of the brain. What a startling 
commentary this, on modern socialistic aims ! What subtle irony, that men 
like these, self respecting to a degree, compelling them to earn the little 
they received, should display a sense of honor and of justice beyond the 
ken of radicals who denounce and rant at men of means, and whose 
promise of substantial revenues without adequate service rendered, con- 
stitutes their chief asset in trade ; of social agitators to whom materialism 
is the all in all — the Alpha and Omega of one’s life ; of men too narrow- 
minded to perceive that wealth more often is an incident along the path 
and not the Temple of Desire toward which, standing at the journey’s 
end, the steps are really turned! In Anholt’s mind a faint suspicion had 
begun to work — a vague conjecture that perhaps his presence here was by 
a Providential wish. He longed to take these men into his confidence ; to 
explain his ideas and his hopes. He knew their comments, blunt and to 
the point, would still be honest and perhaps of use. He wondered what 
their thoughts would be, if today they were told to take their places in 
the social scale, regardless of possessions, heredity or age — the sole test 
resting on their mental and obviously on their moral worth. If one should 
find his sphere above a multimillionaire ; another down approximately to 
the lowest grade, would they then, although now satisfied to reap the 
harvest they had sown, be more or less content — be satisfied with the 
assurance that it rested now with them alone to say how near the topmost 
circle they would go? If that man, having children somewhere, now in 

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school, should find them later higher in the scale than he could get, would 
it render him happier or the reverse? And so his thoughts ran on, while 
a due regard for the propriety of things induced a caution and reserve 
in speech. One thing was manifest. These men concurred in his con- 
tention that intelligence should play a larger part in the regulation of 
society. So far, so good. But to force a recognition of this truth to a 
point where it should become a substantial, controlling and permanent 
factor ; to insure the taking of the medicine essential to the cure ; to have 
classes actually defined and to pave the way for grading people in them, 
and then to arrange the terms of their progression in a manner equitable 
to all — there lay the monster problem of them all. 

“Well, anyhow,” he reflected; “if I ever test this vision out the com- 
munity will have to be almighty small — and incidentally,” he added 
thoughtfully, “if there are to be any survivors the police department will 
have to dance to a merry tune.” 

Discouraged partly by Davey, and partly by his own aversion to leaving 
his present work with its opportunities for character study, until he had 
secured a position to some extent commensurate with his ability and 
requirements, he notified the directory concern of his decision not to 
accept the employment promised him ; a matter of indifference doubtless 
to them, and a loss to him only in so far as it deprived him of another 
interesting experience in the study of human idiosyncrasies and ethics. 
Prompt, faithful and willing in the routine of his daily tasks ; meeting his 
co-workers on a plane of equality, and restraining every inclination to 
moralize to them, except when directly approached, he won from them as 
was his wont in whatever class he moved, their friendship and regard. 

From Dorothy came soul-refreshing letters of love, encouragement 
and faith; from Marie Von Bonhorst, short epistles breathing gratitude 
and hope; from Bishop and Storey, long accounts of their labors and 
results, with here and there ‘suggestions as to alterations and improvements 
in their Utopian scheme. Once a short note came from Bob, telling of the 
increased volume of his cigar and paper sales — a communication particu- 
larly interesting to Anholt because of the decided improvement in chirog- 
raphy, orthography, and in the general style of its composition. Appreciat- 
es ] 


I 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


in g his friends’ thoughtfulness, and inspired by their letters, he searched 
unceasingly for suitable employment. In his brief acknowledgments of their 
communications he was most guarded — so far as wording was concerned. 
Fearful lest they might divine his real extremity by his dropping of some 
contradictory word, he thanked them for remembering him, promised to 
reply more fully later on, and stopped. Just now the matter of postage was 
no unimportant item, especially when his replies to the various help wanted 
advertisements required immediate mailing if they were to receive consider- 
ation at the advertisers’ hands. Time and again he received an answer 
requesting him to call ; an invitation invariably supplemented by that dread 
notation, “Bring references along.” 

But persistent, dogged effort has its day, and so at last Anholt observed 
the winter’s sun was shining overhead. An opening was given him ; one 
where brains meant promotion and where references were of secondary 
consideration ; one that took him from the Salvation Army wagon to a 
position as letter writer in a huge mail order house; one that transformed 
him from a virtual dependent of a practical charity to a correspondent at 
a living wage. 

With the rapid flight of time he was moved from one branch of the 
correspondence department to another. Letters classed under the heads 
of inquiries, complaints, adjustments, delayed shipments, transportation — 
he was initiated into the mysteries of them all, and learned that each must 
be handled and answered along carefully defined and established lines. 
He studied hard to grasp the details of his work ; to secure a perfect under- 
standing of why each letter must be answered thus and so; to do first of 
all the duties entrusted to his hands — to do them well, and then to do 
at least a little more. Here, as elsewhere, a policy of this kind was shown 
to pay a hundred fold. Keen and progressive men were on the lookout 
for new blood. The employee who knew was told to show the other man. 


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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


CHAPTER III. 

By whatever divergent methods we undertake to solve its origin, or to 
explain its subtle, positive, logic defying influence, the simple fact of its 
existence became long ago a matter of universal concession. The “it” 
referring to that feeling, intuition, presentiment, divination — call it what 
you will, that, rapid as the light beam’s progress assumes its tenancy in 
the brain at the exact instant of our introduction to the individual whose 
presence brings the sense to life, and so informs us that somehow, some- 
where, sometime, this person will prove the means of altering the current 
of our lives. One of the least explicable of mental phenomena, it bears in 
its truest sense no relation to that quality of personal magnetism enabling 
one man to largely dominate and influence the actions of another. It is 
not an aggressive, but a passive factor in the working out of our destiny. 
It is quiet, unobtrusive, inscrutable — an enigma solvable by time alone. 
The most insignificant and puny of the human kind will instil this con- 
sciousness in our minds as surely as the person of great mentality, attrac- 
tive physique or dynamic personality. It springs into being at the least 
expected times and under conditions frequently entirely commonplace. It 
comes with the man — or woman ; with the first handshake or spoken word. 
We cannot evade it. We can only pray that it presages us no ill. A 
prayer that Anholt, thinking later of the person talking with him now, 
gave voice to in sincere, if muffled words. 

The man had first approached him asking for a job, the bestowal of 
which he, as head of a division, was expected to make or not, as he felt 
conditions justified. The intonation of the applicant’s voice had attracted 
him at once. Plainly an Englishman, the accent of the Londoner had been 
tempered as if by an extended colonial experience. Probably five feet 
nine in height, his body was inclined to stoutness. His hair, light brown, 
was parted exactly in the middle. Short cropped side whiskers extended 
to the lobe of either ear. Two large moles, one on the left side of his chin, 
the other to the right of his nose, tended to disfigure the face which was 
inclined to puffiness. The moustache had evidently been in recent contact 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 

with the curling irons. The eyes were blue and heavy ; the lips, sensual ; 
the nose verged slightly — very slightly to the retrousse. Not overly intel- 
ligent, his countenance suggested a rambling, perhaps a wayward life. 
His complexion, naturally pink, was tanned as if by recent exposure to a 
tropical sun. In attire he was neat and clean — one might assume fastid- 
ious. His suit was of a pronouncedly London cut; hi^ shoes and bowler 
hat had unquestionably been purchased in the States. Altogether an 
average specimen of his kind — the harum-scarum offshoot of a solid 
English family, who had rolled around the world as fancy willed, occa- 
sionally disturbing the family peace by unexpected visits home, and never, 
despite his moral uncleanliness, without his sponge, tooth brush and comb. 
Such, at least, he appeared to be. 

Anholt, endeavoring to analyze the singular impression produced on his 
mind by the stranger, and smiling inwardly at the unaccountable pre- 
monition of danger flitting across his brain, listened in silence to the 
applicant’s presentation of his case. 

“So you’re from New Zealand, eh?” he interrogated when the other 
paused. “Did you come here direct?” 

“I stopped with my cousin in Scotland for a time. He’s a broker on 
the Provincial Exchange in Edinburgh, but consols are low and your 
jolly troubles here don’t help them any, so I came on to look around.” 

“I see,” remarked Anholt, “from frying pan to fire.” 

“Well, rather !” and the natty individual who had introduced himself as 
Mr. S. Landseer Dublediehl, extracted his handkerchief from its recess 
in his cuff, and applied it gently to his nose. “Oh, I say !” he exclaimed 
suddenly ; “I must tell you. I was an auctioneer in Wellington — used to 
make my four and five guineas a day, then. You’re looked up to in that 
business in the Colonies. I thought I might follow it in the States, but 
it’s like being a costermonger here, don’t you know ? and .” 

“Y-e-s, it’s hardly a gentleman’s vocation,” replied Anholt with an 
ironical inflection lost on the Englishman. 

“Right O !” the latter agreed promptly. “I tried for a fair screw in a 
New York bank. I was a clerk” — he paused and looked wonderingly 

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at the other who smiled at his distinctively English pronunciation of the 
word — “at Smith’s in London.” 

“What made you quit?” asked Anholt, eyeing him closely. 

“I — Oh ! I went to Australia. Anyhow,” he added quickly, “that was 
dealing in pounds, shillings and pence, and I didn’t have the run of your 
money here.” 

“How about the brandy and soda?” Again the man started as he 
caught the piercing eyes studying him. 

“Humph ! Well to be honest” — fumbling his hat — “I’ve been an ass, 
but it’s all over — quite, I assure you. I haven’t touched a drop since I 
left Leicester Square.” 

“You mean Princess Street,” corrected Anholt. 

“No, London,” insisted Dublediehl. “My cousin took me down for a 
toot before I boarded ship.” 

“Yes?” The inquisitor speculated as to what feeling, if any but relief, 
induced the farewell sendoff. Suddenly he pushed his chair back, and 
standing, looked down determinedly in the other’s face. 

“You’ve just lied to me, man! You’ve been looking on the Scotch 
before you came up here — but let that go. You’re broke now, you say, and 
I know what that means to a fellow in a foreign land. I’m going to give 
you a try out. Better jump in now. How?” — looking interrogatively at 
the Englishman, who apparently had some question on his mind requiring 
immediate settlement. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Anholt,” as the latter supplied the name, “but 

about salary. My landlady is .” 

“We’ll fix that later, Dublediehl, with her. You’ll get fifteen dollars 
a week to start with. That’s the best we do. Take my advice and grab 
it if you’re in the hole you say. Simmons,” — calling to the nearest corres- 
pondent — “this is Mr. Dublediehl, who will work on the delayed shipment 
stuff. Better let him study our catalogue for the balance of the day.” 

As the employee, already starting to frame up some witty comment on 
the new man’s name, showed the latter to his desk, Anholt reseated him- 
self with the mental observation : “Do unto others and judge not, Van, to 
which you’d better supplement the practising of such precepts as you 

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endorse.” As days passed into weeks he watched the Englishman’s 
progress, and in time began to think his forebodings had been at fault. 
By no means rapid either in preparing or dictating his replies, the new 
man was careful beyond the ordinary. His lack of punctuality in begin- 
ning his daily work, noticeable at first, had gradually been remedied, while 
so far as one could see he abstained altogether from the captivating cup. 
Once or twice vague rumors went the rounds, of his undue familiarity 
with the female stenographers called to take dictation at his desk — rumors 
unsubstantiated, however, either by direct complaint or by tangible evidence, 
and therefore, to Anholt’s mind, deserving of no credence. Meanwhile, 
Dublediehl had neglected to repay the money advanced him for the pur- 
pose of bridging his immediate needs ; a sacrifice which had been greater 
on Anholt’s part than on the surface would appear, inasmuch as he had 
drawn it from a reserve fund consecrated to the re-establishment of his 
home and the re-enthronement of Dorothy therein. But the Englishman 
was entirely ignorant of his benefactor’s financial stringency; “and then,” 
as Anholt had observed to himself in seeking excuses for the other’s 
laxity, “he probably started so deep in the rut that he hasn’t paid out yet 
with the creditors who pushed him to the limit” — a reflection afterward 
appearing ludicrous in view of his more extensive understanding of the 
man. As for himself, with his inherent tendency toward an extravagant 
generosity, he experienced no little difficulty in discriminating between 
pure selfishness and a rational expenditure of one’s means ; that is, a 
policy implying the conservation of our resources without disregarding 
the ordinary comforts and requirements of our lives. He preferred, 
therefore, until undeceived, to regard Dublediehl as a follower of the 
latter principle in regulating his personal affairs, and trusted that in line 
with this policy he would, as circumstances permitted, voluntarily liquidate 
the indebtedness standing between them. Reserved and uncommunicative 
to the verge of boorishness on all pertaining to his personal career, the 
foreigner’s portrayals of places and public events which had come under 
his observation, were rich in coloring and bore witness to his roving, 
variegated past. Only once had he lapsed from his secretive mood, the 
exception being due to the necessity for his providing a satisfactory pre- 

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lude to his description of some thrilling' Australasian affair a deviation, 
however, bearing in time the strangest and most unexpected fruit. On a 
P. & O. steamer, outbound for the Orient, Dublediehl and an uncle, both 
registered for Auckland, via Melbourne, had been heavy winners in the 
daily pools. Following an unusually successful auction of the lot drawn 
numbers, they had one night paced the deck, discussing their luck and 
their prospective future as New Zealand stockmen. His uncle — banker for 
the pair — growing sleepy, decided to turn in. With a cheery “Good- 
night!” he left his nephew, and descending from the promenade to the 
main deck, headed ostensibly for his room and berth. A half hour later, 
Dublediehl, after a ‘nightcap’ in the smoking room, followed the older 
man’s example and was speedily lost in a sound and uninterrupted sleep. 
Ilis uncle was never seen again. The condition of his stateroom, examined 
carefully the following morning, proved conclusively that he had never 
retired to rest. His disappearance was a mystery apparently as unsolvable 
as a woman’s mind, and — so the nephew now declared — the reason for, 
and the precursor of, grave hardships to himself. Thus his version of 
the tragedy ran. On the authority of what facts could the passengers then, 
or Anholt now, have based their experience of incredulity and disbelief? 

Probably the most insistent as unquestionably it was the most censur- 
able trait in the man’s makeup was his pronounced cynicism. Resolutely 
ignoring the admirable qualities of the men about him, he remained 
fully alive to their shortcomings, and these he emphasized to the exclusion 
of whatever virtues they possessed. With the persistency and unreason- 
ableness characterizing a perverted moral sense he developed all the 
elements of the twentieth century “knocker.” Although cautious by rea- 
son of a due regard for his physical configuration, he revelled in indirect 
aspersions and thinly veiled innuendoes derogatory to this man and that. 
He played no favorites; all was grist that fell into his mill. Anholt 
himself, who delicately suggested the advisability of the Englishman’s 
cessation of his condemnable tactics, became a target for the poisoned 
shafts. Broad minded and attributing this unenviable idiosyncrasy to 
some disease lurking in the organism of the fellow’s brain, he deferred 
the adoption of a drastic course, having no desire to be charged with 

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profiting by his position to avenge what might be termed a fancied wrong, 
Dublediehl performed his duties in a creditable manner. As with Anholt 
he shouldered the burden of a somewhat checkered past, but unlike him 
suffered a moral irregularity of the most despicable nature — one that must 
inevitably prove disastrous to himself. Patience and consideration, though, 
might do more good than kicks — another Anholt theory that time was to 
demonstrate as being ridiculously false. Among the victims of this human 
spring of insidious and subtly worded reflections on the characters of 
honest men, was David Eastman, between whom and Anholt a warm and 
mutually profitable friendship had taken root, and who, meeting the 
Englishman occasionally in his friend’s company, had evinced an interest 
in his history and progress. Not so diplomatic as his former associate in 
the Salvation Army work, in rounding the dangerous corners of another 
man’s moral build, but equally consistent and sincere in his endeavor to 
lead him into righteous ways, he had readily deciphered the infirmities 
of Dublediehl’s mind and as promptly attempted to correct them by 
kindly, well-meant arguments; the result being that Eastman, smaller 
physically than the Englishman, was consigned by the latter straight to 
the devil, while the distorted mind began vigorously to formulate an 
adequate revenge for this unsolicited criticism of his moral delinquencies. 
Neither Anholt nor his friend believed that the other’s resentment would 
take the form of anything more than words — a conception of his character, 
which, if erroneous, might in time result in unpleasantness for them both. 
But as days went by with no discoverable effort on his part to cause injury 
to one or both, they felt confirmed in their diagnosis of the man. 

And so matters ran. Laughing, exuberant Spring, dancing joyously 
across the stage of time, now stood bowing her adieu; while buxom 
Summer with matronly air, considerately paused behind the wings, await- 
ing her precursor’s exit. To Anholt it was a season rich in promise. 
Steadfastly persisting in the narrow course mapped out, and veering 
neither to the right nor left, he had resolutely refrained from compro- 
mising himself by making promises difficult of fulfillment, and had 
resisted with equal pertinacity tempting inducements offered here and 
there to increase through speculative channels his small but growing 

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means. Setting aside a moiety of his income for living purposes and charit- 
able uses, he had husbanded the balance, aside from that sent for Dorothy’s 
support, against the time when it would total a sum warranting her return 
to him. The spirit of conservatism, heretofore a negligible phase of his 
character, appeared to flourish in this most deceptive soil — a growth that 
Anholt, surprised at its vigor, began to watch with gratified and interested 
eyes. Not that he was satisfied with his prospects as they stood — much 
less with the inadequate remuneration received for his present work. But 
his condition now as compared with that of the early winter showed an 
improvement so distinct as precluded a disinclination on his part to profit 
by the lesson taught. Prepared to advantage himself as opportunity 
presented, he proposed to view its coming with a critical, cautious eye, 
and to make assurance doubly sure before he took firm hold. He knew 
that Storey, Hope and Bishop watched his progress with anxious and 
scrutinizing, albeit hopeful minds, and in the voluminous correspondence 
passing between them now he discerned the feeling of intense relief his 
conscientious efforts had brought to them. And if at times he received 
through circuitous channels communications prohibiting forgetfulness of 
the troubles he had once endured, as well as prophesying more to come, 
he looked upon them with a calmness arising from the firm conviction of 
his own integrity and a swerveless purpose to indemnify all creditors in 
time against financial loss. Next to Dorothy’s comforting words his 
greatest pleasure was found in the receipt by him of certain ungrammati- 
cal, misspelled and sometimes slangy lines, whose tedious framing doubt- 
less had been provocative of more than one half uttered oath, but every 
line and dot of which breathed gratitude and messages of good will. 

Anholt was well within the middle of his course and swimming to the 
high embankment straight ahead — the shore on which, as victor in the race, 
he could stand erect, beholden to no man, and thus surrounded by his old 
and time-proved friends work out in peace his cherished theory for 
human good. 


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CHAPTER IV. 

“Here, you fellows ! — Caldwell, Jones, Lercher, everybody— dig in and 
smoke up; they’re the goods all right! Hold on there, Dublediehl! I 
didn’t say to take ’em all,” as the man addressed scooped a handful of 
Perfectos from the box in Anholt’s hand. 

With a sheepish look the Englishman replaced all but three. 
“Humph !” he started to explain. “I was only wanting to help pass 
them around.” 

“Well, you’re not barred yet!” and the speaker glanced meaningly at 
the fellow’s avaricious fist. “Come on, you buggers,” addressing the 
group again; “do you think they’re loaded? That’s the music!” as the 
last hanger-back among the correspondents gathered around Anholt’s 
desk, stepped up and relieved the box of its final cigar. “Can you light 
up? Sure, go ahead — you’ve got twenty minutes yet.” Then, fol- 
lowing a pause during which the striking of matches, long-drawn puffs 
and low but audible “Ahs” prevailed, he exclaimed, “Well, are you 
duffers dumb? Why don’t you ask me something, somebody?” 

A tall, lank, red-haired individual, appropriately called “Reddy,” 
who had been gazing contemplatively at the ceiling, as the bluish smoke 
issued from his lips and curled gracefully skyward, now turned his eyes 
on Anholt. “To tell the truth,” he said slowly, “I, for one, didn’t have 
the nerve. Of course, maybe you only swiped a returned “N. G.” box. 
I’d hate to insult you by venturing it was a hot shot on the ponies, or — 
by gum ! it is — it’s a kid ! Good boy ! Shake !” Reading a confirma- 
tion of his guess in his superior’s happy face, he stepped forward, 
extended his long arm over the heads of the clerks standing in front of 
him, and seizing the newly-made father’s hand, worked it vigorously, 
as he would the handle of a pump. 

“Boy or girl?” somebody asked, as the rotation of congratulations 
and handshakes continued. The one addressed, perplexed by the 
question, suddenly let his arm fall limp. 

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“How in thunder do I know?” he answered in a savage tone. “Do 
you think I get the story of hi — er — its life in a ten-word wire ?” 

“Easiest thing you know,” offered Caldwell, a pudgy fellow with a 
heart big as a barn. “Ten words is a good and plenty, since there’s 
nothing to its life but that — is it a he, or is it a she? I suggest you ask 
it over the ’phone what it is and let us know.” 

“Hm !” the red-headed chap broke in, rubbing his chin thoughtfully ; 
“that’s seven and a quarter to New York — that’s the center of the uni- 
verse now, isn’t it, Anholt? Better wait till night; it’s half rates then ; 
also, the kid, being older, can explain its sex and general impressions 
of the country more coherently, as it were, to dad.” 

“If some of you fellows weren’t so almighty funny,” exclaimed Sim- 
mons, who could be serious enough at times, “you’d know what a 
man’s thinking about in a deal like this is the good wife, and not the 
he-ism or she-ism of the baby. That’s what interests me, anyhow,” 
and he turned, looking inquiringly at Anholt. The latter’s hand, 
shooting forth like a flash, caught his in a warm and hearty grip. 

“She’s fine and dandy, Simmons — thanks ! Anyhow,” he added 
haltingly, “so the telegram said.” 

For some reason the words of Simmons had tended to put a quietus 
on his companions’ thoughtless but good-natured raillery, as indeed 
they proved a temporary damper to the extravagant paternal enthu- 
siasm of their chief. As for Dublediehl, so engrossed was he in the 
contents of a foreign-posted letter handed him by the office runner at 
the moment the good fortune of Anholt was declared, that he neither 
heard the “joshing” to which his benefactor was being subjected, nor 
observed the thoughtful mien which had succeeded to the latter’s 
demonstrative mood. It is doubtful whether in the minds of any save 
Anholt himself a thought of the Englishman’s rude and inconsiderate 
attitude occurred. He had so thoroughly ostracized himself from their 
society and consideration, by reason of his selfishness and unpardon- 
able, as well as apparently motiveless, reflections cast indiscriminately 
on them all, that by tacit agreement he was complete 1 y ignored — a con- 
dition of affairs that aggravated, rather than modified, his childish spite. 

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If, up to this time he had failed to taste the dust of the adjoining alley, 
his luck was attributable more to Anholt’s understood determination to 
discharge the first correspondent resorting to physical extremes with the 
fellow, than because of any regard for the personal inconvenience an 
exertion of the kind necessarily implied. 

“I can’t make the animal out,” Caldwell had once remarked, during a 
discussion of some sneering allusion made by Dublediehl reflecting on 
Anholt’s economical mode of life. “You’d think, being a stranger here, 
he’d try to line up a bunch of friends, instead of plugging away with his 
hammer twenty-four hours out of the day. My dope is that he’s ratty. 
It stands to reason no sane man would knock at everybody for the love 
of it.” 

“Yes,” supplemented Simmons, “and he puts it out in a way that makes 
his words put down in black and white look innocent enough. I wish 
Anholt would fire him. He’s caused more discord since he’s been here 
than I’ve seen in my five years with the house.” 

“He’s too smooth an article for our class,” commented Caldwell. 

“And,” said Reddy, “as crooked as a ram’s horn.” 

All of this will give a fairly accurate idea of his fellow workers’ opinion 
of the man. Anholt’s thoughts, alternating between the possibility of 
complications in his wife’s condition on one side, and his increasing dis- 
appointment at the Englishman’s inexcusable conduct on the other, were 
interrupted finally by the ringing of the bell calling the force to their 
tasks. Immediately the noticeable familiarity between himself and the 
men under his direction, was lost in the atmosphere of a rigid discipline. 
The line dividing superior from subordinate was observed on the latter’s 
part with a promptness and cheerfulness eloquent of the regard in which 
Anholt was held. 

Turning to his desk he noticed a Manila envelope stuck in a corner of 
the blotter and addressed to him. As numbers of these, bearing on one 
phase or another of his routine work reached him daily, there was nothing 
astonishing in its appearance, and, if he eyed it curiously before breaking 
the seal it was because, instead of the customary A. V. A., adopted as a 
means of saving time, a formal Mr. Anholt appeared thereon. Opening 

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it his eyes travelled rapidly along the few curt lines. His face, before the 
signature was reached, assumed a death-like pallor. Dropping into his 
seat with the perspiration standing boldly on his forehead, his dry lips 
gave utterance to a half moan, followed by words audible to none around. 

“Oh, my God ! to strike me now — at such a time as this ! Oh, God ! it's 
awful, awful” The communication, falling from his hands, fluttered to the 
floor. He sat, for a minute, staring into nothingness, a prey to sickening 
thoughts — thoughts that fell like some hideous, monstrous burden on his 
heart. Then with a long drawn sigh he roused himself to action, and 
leaning over picked the paper up, reading it through once more. It ran : 

Mr. Anson Van An holt. 

Dear Sir — Your services, beginning July 1st, two weeks hence, will be 
no longer required. To anticipate a probable request from you I would 
add that to employees from whom we exact no references, we grant none. 
The reason to you will be obvious. You will doubtless be able to explain 
your leaving us as a natural result of the advancing dull season, and to 
your being comparatively a new man with us. As this action is final on 
our part, and as we have no explanation to make, I trust you will refrain 
from calling our attention further to the matter. I may add that your 
services have been satisfactory. 

Yours truly, 

Alexander Dodge, 

General Manager. 

The re-reading caused Anholt greater suffering than before. Leaving 
his desk he sought seclusion by an open window in the hall. Here, cooled 
by the breezes wafted from the lake, he stood with gloomy eyes and con- 
tracted brow, a martyr to his devotion shown to principles of right. 

“To think — Oh God ! to think, that I can’t demand a single explanatory 
word. My record ties me hand and foot. The meanest laborer insists 
on having as a right, what I, though my soul’s salvation is at stake, daren’t 
plead for as a favor on my knees. Oh, gentle, merciful Christ ! how long 
yet must I bear this punishment for my sins? What further sacrifice or 
misery on my part does the God of Wrath demand? What unhappiness 
and shame before I’ve paid the price of peace?” 

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His thoughts wandered toward the distant east. His mind’s eye caught 
the picture of a room — a bed ; of a pale faced, saint-like figure, from whose 
tender, trustful eyes the light of a proud and happy motherhood shone 
forth ; whose arms lovingly embraced a treasured babe ; whose thoughts 
were with him, wondering what pleasure he derived from the knowledge 
of her precious gift ; who hungered for his presence and counted the hours 
between herself and him — and home ; who was thanking her Savior for 
His guidance of the one she loved, to righteous ways — to honorable and 
steady work; who impatiently craved permission to write him just a line 
and tell him of the sweetest, healthiest and best natured baby in all the 
great, wide world. And so his thoughts ran on, chasing one another 
across his brain, and stinging it as if in mockery at his woes, while long 
conquered tears, given liberty at last, coursed down his cheeks — silent 
tributes to his manliness and worth. Finally he lifted his head, shook it 
as if to rid the face of its evidence of grief, tried bravely to assume a 
smile, and started back to work. 

“It’s tough, old chap !” — he reflected thus. “It might be worse though; 
besides, she’s well and — stop that!” as a lump again mounted to his 
throat. ‘Faint heart ne’er won fair lady’ yet, nor kept her, man, especially 
with a brood. Hold your job down right; that comes first, and meantime 
— get another.” 

If the general manager, passing through the office later in the day, 
glanced at Anholt’s face, expecting to discover traces either of annoyance 
or resentment, his fears — or hopes, were quickly put at rest. 

Ten minutes before the closing bell rang out, the worried man, having 
finished the dictation of a mass of letters, whirled his chair around to 
find Dublediehl, standing near him, awaiting opportunity to speak. 

“All right, Dublediehl ! what is it ?” 

“You’re not engaged for dinner tonight, are you? No! Then I hope 
you’ll dine with me — anywhere you say. It’s most important, I assure 
you.” 

An invitation so startling ; so unprecedented ; so utterly at variance with 
anything he had ever known the man to do, caused Anholt to discredit 
his hearing and look rather dazedly in the other’s face. “Pardon me,” he 
said, “I didn’t quite catch that — right.” 

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“I asked you to honor me by acting as my guest at dinner. Fact is,” 
continued the Englishman, “I’ve got some bally good news. Something 
capital for both of us. It’s worth determining your contract here. Yes? 
Right O! What say to The States at seven?” 

So the engagement was made. Not that Anholt experienced any con- 
fidence in Dublediehl’s ability to “make good” on the one, and to him by 
far the most interesting statement; but first, because he had nothing else 
on hand, and secondly, because he wanted the solution of the riddle — 
to ascertain what circumstance or combination of circumstances had con- 
tributed to this ebullition of hospitality on the part of his prospective host. 

As Dublediehl turned away, Anholt extracted a telegram from his well 
worn pocketbook and perused it for the hundredth time. “If that doesn’t 
spell woman to the dot” — communing with himself — “then I’m a happy 
jigger! They must have those ten words — but eleven — three cents more 
— never in a thousand years ! And a man would make the job complete 
with four. Well, well! those are the things that make them dear to us.” 
His eyes rested fondly on the message, sent him by Marie Von Bonhorst, 
and worded as follows: 

“Fine baby just arrived. Dorothy and child both doing well.” 

Three hours later he gazed thoughtfully across the expanse of snow 
white linen, from which all save liqueur glasses had been removed. Dub- 
lediehl, who had been refolding the letter which his guest had carefully — 
very carefully read over for the second time, returned it to his pocket. 

“That looks good, Dublediehl, I’ll admit.” The words followed a long 
series of perfect wreaths, of smoke. “I’m satisfied from what you said 
before, that the gear’s all right. The question is, can your cousin put the 
deal through?” 

“Humph ! He’ll get all he wants from the English company’s stock- 
holders in Scotland. Don’t you see he’s got the underwriting promised? 
They’re like a pack of hounds up there, since they’ve smelled that ten 
shilling jump,” and Dublediehl grunted again, as if astounded at the raising 
of a question of the kind. In fact, this propensity to preface his remarks, 
and at times add to them with anywhere from one to a number of grunts, 
tended to substantiate Reddy’s claim that there was “more of hog in the 

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Englishman than in many a porker served with ‘beans and ” — a compari- 
son more intelligible to an habitue of Chicago Jake’s than to a feaster of 
the upper crust. 

Anholt’s understanding of the situation, as gathered both from his 
former conversations with Dublediehl and from the contents of the exhaus- 
tive communication just submitted him, was about as follows: A Ger- 
man — Adolph Schnelhauser by name, had invented and patented what 
had been styled the Schnelhauser Gear. While hardly involving a new 
principle in mechanics it nevertheless signalized a new era in its particular 
field, and both on the Continent and in Great Britain was rapidly sup- 
planting all former types. Dublediehl’s cousin, as an active agent in the 
flotation of the company controlling the English patents, had long been 
dissatisfied with his small holdings in what had developed into a decidedly 
lucrative business. Feeling that he had received the short end of the bar- 
gain from his associates, he had recently turned toward the American 
field with covetous eyes, scenting an opening not only to refill his more 
or less depleted pockets, but to turn the tables on the financiers who here- 
tofore had outmaneuvered him. It is not for us to pass upon the ethics 
of his attitude or upon the merits of his controversy with the men who 
formerly had co-operated with him. Certain it is, however, that the con- 
trolling shareholders in the English company were residents of Scotland, 
and that he, as a broker, was in direct touch with most of them; a fact 
tending to support his contention that his profits had been in exact inverse 
ratio to his efforts and influence in securing the stock subscriptions. Be 
that as it may, he had now determined to secure the American rights, 
organize a company, file his prospectus in Somerset House, go to the 
public, and after adequately compensating himself in the way of shares 
and cash, trust the company’s welfare to Providence and Yankee business, 
brains. This naturally, involved no inconsiderable amount of secrecy in 
his preliminary moves. It likewise involved his providing himself with 
pertinent data covering the condition of this class of industry in the States 
— the demand, cost to manufacture, probable selling price, prospective 
profits, and so on. It was quite essential that this information be up-to- 
date and, if possible, backed up in person by its compiler; for the canny 
Scotsman is no easy nut to crack, even in the hands of friends. All of 

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the above helps to bring us now, closer to the point. S. Landseer Duble- 
diehl had written his cousin, Frederick G. Dublediehl, concerning Anholt, 
and, singularly enough in a flattering vein — so he claimed, at least. Here 
was the broker’s cue. Anholt should be induced to provide the data, map 
out the proposed company’s policy along American lines, make the trip 
to Scotland and assist by his presence in engineering the deal. In return 
for this he was to be handsomely provided for, presumably as managing 
director ; receive a slice of the shares or cash, plus a generous salary as an 
officer, and be given exclusive control of the business in the States. 
S. Landseer Dublediehl would, of course, have a finger in the pie. Such 
is a synopsis of the plot as outlined to Anholt in the rathskeller of the 
Chicago restaurant. To him, the matter as a business proposition appeared 
worthy of consideration. The field for a corporation of this kind, con- 
servatively capitalized, was undoubtedly as large in America as in either 
England or Germany. The business had paid heavy dividends in those 
countries — therefore it could certainly do so here. If the plan as disclosed 
was carried to a successful issue it meant the beginning of his financial 
rehabilitation and a welcome escape from the embarrassment of his present 
situation. How far should he permit the motives behind the broker’s 
acts to influence him? Or should he consider them at all, seeing that it 
would be solely by reason of their existence that he could hope to advant- 
age himself through the flotation of the new company — a company which 
would assuredly be organized whether he participated in the preliminaries 
or not ? Conversant as he was with the Companies’ Acts of Great Britain, 
he was satisfied that whatever his own or the broker’s profits might be, 
they must first have the approval of the shareholders. The conditions 
under which the English prospectus is issued abundantly insured this. 
So far as he could see, the doubtful points were to be found in this : Could 
he provide the information necessary to an intelligent and convincing 
understanding of the conditions in America by people who were totally 
in the dark concerning them, and — if he did provide it, could Dublediehl’s 
cousin do the rest? Referring to the last, it appeared reasonable to 
assume that, having been instrumental in floating the English company 
on the strength of an invention at the time untried, now that its value was 
clearly demonstrated, no difficulty should be encountered by him in manip- 

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ulating in a manner satisfactory to all, the deal now under consideration. 
Certainly, the broker’s interests were, in a way, identical with those of 
Anholt, inasmuch as he had everything to gain by success and nothing 
by failure. As for Anholt himself, he would be violating none of the 
pledges made to himself or friends. To all intents and purposes he 
would be in everything an employee — nothing more, nothing less. He 
was to influence no capital — to invest no money. In case of failure his 
position could be no worse than in the present light of things it promised 
to be. If favored by success he would be satisfactorily taken care of. 
After all, was he not to observe in this the extended hand of a Divine 
friend — the mysterious workings of an omniscient mind directed toward 
furthering his welfare? He was not deceived by the attitude of his host. 
For the moment their interests were mutual, and in the selfish spirit of 
the man lay Anholt’s assurance of temporary immunity from the poison- 
ous influence of the other’s tongue. Despite both his disinclination to 
affiliate himself in a business transaction with a man of Dublediehl’s 
stamp, and his strong opposition to lending himself as a tool in the work- 
ing out of another’s scheme of revenge, he felt that expediency now de- 
manded from him concessions along this line, and that his personal feel- 
ings should be subjugated to the requirements of a situation which, satis- 
factorily handled, would terminate so advantageously to himself. The 
striking developments of the past twenty-four hours — Dorothy’s gift, and 
the notice of his dismissal, were impressed too vividly upon his mind to 
permit mere prejudice, however well founded, to obtrude itself between 
him and a promised liberation from his present bondage. 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Dublediehl,” he finally exclaimed, after a pro- 
longed threshing out of the pros and cons between the two. “I haven’t 
any money to lose nor time to spare, but I’ll write your cousin a letter 
embodying the conditions under which I’ll take this on, and his cabled 
‘yes’ or ‘no’ will decide the question — so far as I’m concerned. And — I’ll 
want his guarantee to reimburse me for money spent if he loses out on 
this. You understand that, don’t you?” 

The Englishman, after a critical inspection of the now presented check, 
handed the astonished waiter the amount called for, plus a solitary dime. 
Disregarding the servitor’s contemptuous stare, he slowly extracted an 

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Egyptian cigarette from a silver case, and after lighting it answered indi- 
rectly his guest’s last words. 

“Don’t you form any idea that Fred’s a bloomin’ fool. He’s as warm 
after the fivers as you are and he isn’t working for his bally health. By 
allotment day every share’ll be taken, I’ll wager twenty quid on that. 
You leave it to him — Humph !” and following the grunt he proceeded to 
exhale, first through one nostril and then through the other, a succession 
of blue white streams of smoke, which, interrupted in their downward 
course by contact with the table cloth, spread gradually over its glossy 
surface and then, impelled by natural laws, wafted their way ceilingward, 
leaving a disagreeable reminder of their presence in Anholt’s eyes and 
nose. This, being an accomplishment of which Dublediehl was inordi- 
nately proud, he had come to consider it as an integral part of his meals — 
a special course as it were, no less enjoyed by his fellow diners than by 
himself. Whatever spirit of curiosity the suggested wager may have 
produced in Anholt’s mind, it remained unsatisfied by any disclosure of the 
source from which his host’s implied wealth was derived. Nor — let it 
be here stated — was he made cognizant of a certain fact that tended ma- 
terially to advance his interests in the contemplated company organization 
and flotation — namely, that Dublediehl’s cousin, having by reason of cer- 
tain obligations incurred, been prohibited from operating personally on 
the Edinburgh Exchange until said debts were paid, and being thereby 
temporarily deprived of his principal source of income, must, of necessity, 
engineer some new deal of sufficient magnitude to place him on his feet. 
This, of course, meant fat for Anholt if he chose to assist in the decapi- 
tation of the goose. But more of this anon. 

“I don’t question your cousin’s intentions,” he said at last, pushing 
back his chair in signal of departure, “and I’m inclined to concur to some 
extent in your opinion of his ability, but I propose for once to subordinate 
sentiment to business. I appreciate the offer made me — it looks good, 
but if it isn’t to be a black and white transaction it won’t be anything — 
with me,” and his sharp eyes scrutinized the face of his host. 

The latter, startled by the words, and fearful lest his plans miscarry 
after all, adopted a conciliatory course. 

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“Right you are!” he replied with a semblance of approval in his tones 
and manner; “that’ll be quite all right — it’s business, I should say.” 

“It is business!” retorted the other, shortly. 

A half hour later, Anholt, determined to spend the balance of his even- 
ing in figuring the situation out, mounted the shabbily carpeted hall steps 
to his room. Striking a light his eyes fell on a rather dirty envelope 
bearing his address, propped against a pitcher on the stand. 

“Hello!” he muttered, “they’re coming in regiments today. I wonder 
if I’m not seeing things,” he added as he surveyed the handwriting with a 
cautious, analytical eye. “First it’s a baby, then it’s a ‘fire’, and now — 
well, here goes for the climax!” and he ripped the envelope open. 

Probably the experiences of the day had left him immune from any 
feelings of emotion, for he neither started nor passed noticeable comment 
as he read the following lines : 

Dear Mr. Anholt — I am in an awful mess. Will you be kind enough to 
come and see me? Iam locked* up in the Harrison Street Station. Please 
come at once if you can. I am innocent of anything. 

Your obedient friend, 

David Eastman. 

Deliberately as if he were starting to his work, Anholt left the room, 
descended the stairs, and after closing the street door with the utmost 
caution, headed for the nearest car. 


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CHAPTER V. 

“Just repeat that, Davey, will you — carefully? Pm beginning to catch 
a glimmer of light.” 

Anholt’s eyes, as they searched the face behind the barred door, gave 
inkling of a vague and curious suspicion of the truth. His reassuring 
words, falling like balm upon a tortured heart, inspired the other with 
renewed hope, encouraging him to search his memory for any detail yet 
undisclosed. 

“It was like this, Mr. Anholt,” he began. “ Supper was just over, and 
I was upstairs getting ready to go over to Staff Captain Seltzman’s about 
having that leak in the roof fixed up, when Gus — you remember Gus, the 
cook ?^-he came up on the run, and says, ‘Davey, somebody telephoned for 
you over on South State — says to come quick; a woman’s dyin’ and 
wants to see you.’ He didn’t know who ’twas called, but wrote the number 
and a woman’s name down on a piece of paper and give it to me. So I 
grabbed my Bible and hymn book and shot off to the first car. I found 
the place all right, and the woman, who was moaning on a bed with pains, 
sayin’ she feared she would die. She said, too, her man had left her, sayin’ 
he would send for somebody to come and look after her. She was right 
good looking, Mr. Anholt, and I tried to find out just what was ailin’ her, 
when she told me to go to a drawer and take a prescription and fifty 
cents out of her pocketbook and get it filled quick. I found the pre- 
scription, but there wasn’t any money there, and not wanting to add to her 
misery, I didn’t say anything about it, but went off to the drug store and 
paid for it myself. I had to wait a while to get it filled, and when I got 
back there was an officer waitin’ and she was cryin’ out I robbed her. 
She said she had twenty dollars in the pocketbook which she got this 
morning from putting up a necklace her mother give her. They wouldn’t 
listen to anything I said, so here I am,” and Davey, looking anxiously at 
his friend, awaited an expression of his opinion. 

“Did she say who this man of her’s was, Davey, or discuss him?” 

“No, sir ; she wouldn’t tell me anything about him.” 

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“What about her — did she impress you as really suffering?” 

“I’m sure she was sick, Mr. Anholt— yes I remember the druggist said 
she was in a bad way.” 

“And about the money? She should have had a pawn ticket if her 
story was straight.” 

“She did, sir. I remembered afterward seeing it in her pocketbook; 
but I didn’t take the money, as truly as .” 

“I know that, Davey, my boy,” interrupted Anholt ; “but how about the 
Army people — have you sent them any word?” 

“Not a thing, sir. I sent for you because I — I thought you’d know.” 

“You did right. Now Davey, let me have that woman’s name and 
address. I suppose the police have the paper — yes ? Well you remember 
it,” and pulling the envelope containing Davey’s note to him from his 
pocket, he jotted the address down on its back. 

“Now, look here, boy ! I can’t bail you out tonight. I haven’t the 
money — you know that, and I wouldn’t know where to look for a bonds- 
man; but I’ll promise you if any complainant appears in court in the 
morning, it won’t be my fault. Can you hold out? Good! Now don’t 
question me, boy, but try to get some sleep. I’m off on a little sleuthing 
stunt of my own. I’ll see you in the morning and — you’ll get a decent 
breakfast, which will help some. About the Army folks — leave that to me. 
Good night, lad, and stop your worrying.” 

Three hours later, Anholt, puffing an unusually long and fat cigar, was 
headed leisurely for his lodgings. “It’s a funny, funny proposition” — so 
his thoughts ran. “The woman’s honest enough, and she was robbed — 
that’s a certainty; and there’s where the plot begins to thicken. That 
money was gone when Davey got there. If she’d only open up about that 
fellow of hers — confound it all! that’s an awful suspicion to harbor. It 

isn’t possible — and yet .” Startled by the thought darting across his 

brain he brought himself to a sudden halt. “Great Father of Mercy! that 
isn’t — no, by the gods it can’t be right! You’re unbalanced, Anholt; I 
tell you today’s upheaval has got your mind to rocking. What you want 
is sleep — good and quick. You’ve saved Davey, haven’t you ? Well then, 
forget it !” and resuming his walk at a more rapid gait, he tried to banish 

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the entire thing from his mind; endeavored in the softening, chastening 
thoughts of his beloved Dorothy and the little innocent by her side, to find 
an antidote for the sickening reflections that had set his brain awhirl. And 
if he could ill afford the price demanded for his friend’s release, the more 
to his credit that no regret at the expenditure occurred for an instant to 
him now. As he approached the house his eyes traveled toward a 
window near the roof. A sigh of relief escaped him. “That blessed light! 
I’m glad they turned it out. Here’s where I undress and jump in bed with 
eyes closed tight. I’ve seen enough of nightmare envelopes for any single 
day” — a decision he religiously carried out. 

About that time, Policeman Casey, whose beat included a portion of 
South State Street, called up the sergeant at the Harrison Street Station. 

“Have yez got the note from thot woman, Mickle, about the lad Officer 
Callahan brought in? Him as didn’t — Yis? Sure thot’s roight. What 

kin yez look fer from the loikes of her, to arrist ,” but the sergeant, 

not caring for any of Casey’s moralization, and having been abundantly 
cursed with trouble over this self-same arrest, snapped the receiver on its 
hook with a smothered oath. As for Davey, he had never seen a sky so 
clear nor stars so bright as those now lighting him on his way. 
***** 

But little refreshed after a restless night, Anholt, dispensing with 
breakfast, save coffee and rolls, reached his department in the mail-order 
house fully an hour before any other correspondent. Early as he was a 
message awaited him from Dublediehl, stating that he would remain home 
for the day, preparing a statement to his cousin covering Anholt’s attitude, 
and requesting the latter to supplement and confirm it by a letter to go, if 
possible, by the earliest boat. 

“I’ve a pretty decided impression,” muttered Anholt, tearing the com- 
munication to bits, “that any man confirming, sight unseen, any of that 
fellow’s reports, deserves everything he’s bound to get. Mr. Frederick 
G. Dublediehl won’t require any interpreter to understand what little I’ve 
got to say. The regularity with which I’ve been left holding the bag is 
getting wearisome. There’ll be a different assignment of the job this time 
and it won’t fall on the shareholders at that.” Having thus given expres- 
sion to his views, he cocked his feet on the adjoining chair, picked up a 

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writing pad, and lost himself in the labyrinth of some interesting mathe- 
matical problem. Cheered later by Davey’s telephonic confirmation of his 
release and extravagant assurances of gratitude, and, if truth were told, 
infinitely relieved by Dublediehrs absence, he managed to clean up his 
routine work by early afternoon, a condition of affairs enabling him to 
dictate and mail his letter to the broker in Edinburgh before the working 
day was closed. As to his right to so utilize his employer’s time — well, 
that is merely a little question of ethics, after all. Fortunately, perhaps, 
for his peace of mind, a letter from Marie, received with the noon’s batch 
of mail, failed in delivery to him until the clerks were well dispersed. 
Tearing it open his hungry eyes devoured with incredible speed the sheets 
of closely written lines. With palpitating heart he read her enthusiastic 
report of the little one’s advent ; learned to his intense delight that it was 
a buster, bouncing boy; that it was the finest and most wonderfully 
developed youngster any person — the doctor not excepted — had ever laid 
eyes upon. This from a woman with a baby of her own was tribute indeed. 
She told him that Dorothy, although too weak to write at present, was 
doing splendidly, and intimated that he, as one of the luckiest beings on 
this planet, could only show a proper appreciation of the gift by turning 
a series of somersaults on the floor. 

But further down the letter took on a different tone. “Not,” wrote 
Marie, “that I want to have you worried over anything, but simply because 
I think this kind of knowledge helps in the end instead of hurting one.” 
The substance of the disquieting information was that certain communi- 
cations brooking no good to him were understood to be passing between 
parties unknown, in Chicago, and at least one of his former associates — 
presumably Professor Rosseau — in New York. By what devious pro- 
cesses the knowledge of Anholt’s whereabouts had been secured, neither 
Marie nor the others in possession of the secret could ascertain. Nor had 
any enlightenment as to the precise nature of the correspondence been 
obtainable. Certain remarks, however, dropped from the lips of Ros- 
seau at a meeting called for the purpose of winding up the guano 
company’s affairs, and promptly reported by Cunningham to Storey, con- 
vinced the latter that the Professor was not only fully cognizant of 

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Anholt’s residence and occupation, but that he proposed to utilize this 
information to the other’s serious detriment; a fact tending to fortify 
Anholt’s friends in their assumption that Rosseau was the author, or at 
least the instigator of a correspondence promising disaster to the former 
vice-president of the defunct corporation. Indeed, it was in the con- 
struction placed on the Professor’s words that their first intimation of the 
surreptitious exchange of letters was found. It was determined, there- 
fore, among his friends, to notify him of the unlooked-for development at 
once — Marie, as best qualified for the task, being delegated to forward the 
advice, in the hope that being forewarned he might guard effectually 
against a disagreeable surprise. It would have been inadvisable, if not 
indeed dangerous, considering Dorothy’s condition, to allow her any 
knowledge of their discovery; much more so to commission her as an 
agent for its transmission to her husband. None of them believed the 
aged Withers to be involved to the slightest extent in the present plot. 
With Anholt’s departure from the city and his total elimination from 
League affairs, the old man had apparently considered his object achieved, 
and scrupulously avoided any reference to, or comment on, his erstwhile 
foe. 

Whether the object of this puzzling written intercourse now called to 
Anholt’s attention had been accomplished in the notice of his dismissal 
yesterday, or whether that occurrence was a mere incident in the execu- 
tion of some diabolic scheme directed toward his total ruination was a 
question impossible to answer at this time. It was quite enough to know 
that in his experience of the preceding day ample evidence had been 
adduced showing a substantial basis for his friends’ expressed fears. 

Another dispiriting piece of intelligence conveyed in Marie’s letter re- 
lated to Bob, from whom for six weeks past Anholt had received no word. 
The young man had — so the information ran — disposed of his cigar 
stand for a nominal sum, and less than a month ago had disappeared from 
his former haunts. For some time prior to his disappearance he had 
manifested symptoms of extreme nervous depression. His complexion, 
from a ruddy brown, gradually assumed a chalky, sickly hue; his face 
became pinched ; his solid and agile body began to lose in flesh and vigor ; 

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his entire appearance, startling to those who knew him, betokened despond- 
ency and failing health. He would accept no advice, offer no explanation. 
In a jerky, nervous way he would check the inquiries of solicitous friends 
by attempting to laugh their fears away. Then at times, as when Marie 
had last met him on the street, he would burst unaccountably into tears, 
express a desire for death’s approach, and decry conditions which he 
believed had kept him down. He was not drinking — Storey had satisfied 
himself of that. It appeared as if some insidious disease, long nourished 
in his blood, had leaped suddenly into aggressive life, and attacking the 
vital organs with indiscriminating hands, had robbed them of the proper- 
ties that make for health, and strength, and mind. It was a physical and 
mental transformation so marvelously rapid and pronounced, that, as 
Marie now wrote, without the confirmatory evidence of her friends, she 
would have characterized the entire experience — referring to her en- 
counter with him — as some hideous fantasy, disclosing happenings impos- 
sible in actual life. Then, just as Storey had determined that a diagnosis 
must be made by some skilled physician, the man dropped mysteriously 
and utterly out of sight. 

So far these facts had been carefully withheld from Anholt, but now 
the cigar stand’s purchaser, harkening to persistent rumors of a certain 
mortgage on the stock and fixtures held by Bob’s former patron, grew 
restless, and insisted on a signed refutation of these reports from the 
alleged mortgagee, else he could neither dispose of his business, if so 
inclined, nor secure sufficient credit to keep it fully stocked. 

Anholt, with a heavy sigh and an air of intense weariness, placed the 
hurriedly read letter in his pocket and departed for the day. Momentarily 
stunned by the revelation of Bob’s lamentable condition and disappearance, 
his thoughts gradually reverted to Storey and his unaccountable neglect 
in permitting a situation of this character to develop without adopting 
measures looking to its correction. Nor did this delinquency in failing to 
advise him of the treacherous disease tend to allay Anho t’s fee’ing of 
resentment at what, in the solitude of his room, he chose to term “down- 
right, criminal negligence.” With his fuller realization of the unfortunate 
man’s desperate plight, so proportionately did his feeling of anger grow. 

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“It’s unpardonable, shameful !” so his thoughts ran as this phase of the 
matter kept obtruding itself on his mind. “If I’d been told about this 
we could have saved him. / know what the matter is,” he continued, as 
he brushed his coat fiercely and caring little whether he was heard or 
not. “/ know that damned so-called catarrh snuff, loaded to the gills with 
coke, that’s started him to hell. Don’t talk to me about its being a 
treacherous disease that’s caused by anything but that hellish, seductive, 
mind-wrecking and soul-destroying drug — God ! and its poisonous samples 
piled up, free for all, in spite of the law, in half of the drug stores in 
New York! Death — tempting adult and child alike in places supposedly 
consecrated to the sale of remedies that prolong one’s life! I told Bob 
straight — he promised me he’d let the stuff alone — for good. By heaven ! 
it looks as if some fatal curse keeps trailing at my heels, making life a 
misery to every one I ever learn to know and love. I wonder now,” he 
added after a prolonged pause, “in what particular spot the cyclone will 
choose to strike next. Withers was right — the further men keep away 
from me the better off they are.” 


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CHAPTER VI. 

To the ultraconservative character of the British people has been charge- 
able, with no inconsiderable percentage of justice, a thwarting of numerous 
ambitious policies, both of state and of individuals. Precisely as with drugs, 
which if taken moderately effect a cure, but used to excess prolong and 
aggravate the malady, so has this phase of that nation’s temperament, by 
its very immoderateness nullified and rendered impotent legislation 
founded on principles of actual merit and popular demand. Scanning 
the records of the latest Parliament, one will nod approvingly at this or 
that particular Act — a physical manifestation of satisfaction followed too 
frequently a moment later by a shrug of deep disgust. For the strength, 
effectiveness and worth of the aforesaid law has been entirely voided by 
a succeeding qualifying clause — a provision inserted for conservatism’s 
sake, dulling the sharp edge of the enactment and rendering it ineffectual 
in an operation primarily intended to correct a social or a legal wrong. 
In the “Companies’ Acts” this tendency, bravely resisted to a certain point, 
plays beyond that stage a prominent and consequently a disturbing part, 
precluding both a harmonious construction of the law and a reasonable 
hope on the shareholders’ part of substantial redress for many trans- 
gressions of those who control the chartered companies. Fortunately 
our concern does not extend beyond the station at which our precedent 
ridden conservatist intrudes his owl-like presence into the legislative car- 
riage. In other words, with our company once floated we will have no 
crows to pick with legislation affecting its perpetuation. Up to this point 
the laws governing the organization and control of stock companies in 
Great Britain are based on a clean cut, intelligent and aggressive under- 
standing of the hour’s requirements. There is no ground for misunder- 
standing in any of their provisions. They are clear, comprehensive, and 
eminently fair to principals — or promoters, and to shareho’ders alike. 
They are clean samples of honest legislative work and insure to a degree 
unknown in the corporation laws of the United States a frank, public 
avowal, not only of the company’s aims and prospects, but of the exact 

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conditions under which it is being formed and with the promoter’s profits 
specifically set forth. Its prospectus, as publicly advertised, is practi- 
cally the charter. As a rule it conveys the only information given out; 
it is the only persuasive argument advanced in soliciting subscriptions to 
the shares. Approved by the Government and duly filed, together with 
the contracts it discloses, in the vaults of Somerset House, the original 
prospectus becomes forever available as evidence against unscrupulous 
promoters and would be financiers. So, too, the English principle of 
underwriting has advanced far beyond our crude American way, to the 
obvious advantage of the shareholders in British companies. With the 
exact amount of capital estimated as necessary to successfully begin the 
business stated clearly in the prospectus given out, the promoter aims to 
have that amount underwritten before any subscriptions are taken for the 
shares. Thus, whether the public subscribes to the total of the shares 
offered or not, those who do part with their funds are amply guaranteed 
that the required capital will be on hand, and that their money will not be 
squandered in a vain attempt to establish and conduct the business with 
an amount less than that stated in the prospectus as being essential. 
Contrasted with the customary American policy of utilizing the funds as 
they come in, whether the requisite sum for a successful inauguration of 
the business is secured or not, the merits of the English method must 
appeal to all cautious investors. True, this practice of first underwriting 
the shares is occasionally waived in Great Britain, just as in the States the 
safer poHcy outlined above is not infrequently put to the test; but even 
so, the safety of the subscriber’s principal is assured if subscriptions fall 
below the required amount. In such a contingency, as in those cases 
where the issue has been oversubscribed, the applicant’s check is returned 
unused. Seldom does the total number of shares underwritten equal the 
amount offered to the public — a wise provision from the promoter’s point 
of view, enabling him, since the underwriting usually covers the estimated 
working capital a’one, and a large percentage of the remaining shares 
offered represents his gain, to take his profits wholly or part in cash ac- 
cording to the pub’ic’s response. It also eliminates that always dep^r- 
able experience of being obliged to return sound currency to people who 
have generous’y sent one more than was stated as being the exact sum 

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needed. Unlike America, where advertisements of stock issues run 
sometimes for weeks and months, with the proceeds from the sale of 
shares being largely expended on an ever-increasing publicity account, 
the English plan cuts this period down to an average of three days. 
Reciting clearly in the prospectus when the subscription lists will close, 
the law compels an absolute adherence to that statement. At the hour 
specified the issue is a failure, under which circumstances the underwriters 
must make up the shortage, or it has proved a success and they are released 
from further liability, richer by their underwriting fee. If we add to all 
of this the explanation that directors in the English companies almost 
invariably receive both an annual salary and a percentage of the profits, 
in addition to whatever dividends may be due them on the shares in their 
possession, we will have covered the ground to an extent sufficient for 
our purpose. Summed up, the gist of the matter amounts to this : First 
get your proposition ; then your underwriters, and your cake is ready for 
the eating. 

******* * * * * 

Anson Van Anholt, having shown a due consideration for his inner 
man, selected with the eye of a connoisseur a particularly tempting Corona 
Special from the newly opened box. Frascati’s had always appealed to 
him by reason of its lights, its music, its cuisine and Bohemian class of 
patronage. Without, was Oxford Street, with its scurrying crowds, its 
ceaseless procession of omnibuses, taxicabs and hansoms, driven by men 
who took the most incredible of chances, yet who always managed to 
get safely through; with its lights, its types, its never-ending noise; with 
all that men should hate yet seem to love; with its poverty, and wealth, 
and sin. Inside, the soft, caressing music soothed the mind ; the towering, 
sheltering palms beckoned one to forgetfulness and peace ; the atmosphere 
was charged with life, with merriment and song. In all a most appropriate 
place to wind up a prosperous and satisfying day. 

Two fellow-diners, toying carelessly with cups of fragrant coffee pre- 
pared by the dark-hued attendant in Turkish dress, gazed inquiringly at 
Anholt. One was tall and dark, with face showing traces neither of 
moustache nor of beard. A long, deep scar, starting at the corner of his 
mouth, extended across his left cheek fully to the ear, giving his features 

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a singularly odd appearance and effectually preventing one from reading 
either his character or thoughts in the play of facial muscles. This was 
Mr. Frederick G. Dublediehl, of Edinburgh, the soon-to-be-reinstated 
broker, and successful promoter of The Schnelhauser Gear of America, 
Limited. The third figure at the table was a little, sandy-complexioned 
individual whose bushy side whiskers, composed of countless yellowish- 
tinted hairs growing at cross purposes one with another, appeared desir- 
ous of investigating on their own account every article of food, the result 
being their owner’s constant application of the serviette with one hand, 
while he juggled his food with the other. This was Mr. Donald Mac 
Dougal, a most ignoble specimen physically, of a brave and honored 
ancestry, but who, despite his fussy ways and squeaky voice, managed 
fairly well to get along. 

“What I said,” remarked Anholt, answering their interrogatory looks, 
“was that — to use an American expression — you have us ‘skinned a mile’ 
when it comes to floating companies in a hurry. You’re long enough 
figuring whether you want a thing or not, but that settled — well, it’s all 
over.” 

“Quite right ! quite right ! you must show them first, show them first — 
a most delicate, difficult little trick I can assure you,” and Mr. MacDou- 
gal’s whiskers, having investigated the sediment in his coffee cup, now 
moved back and forth, leaving their undecipherable tracings on the table 
cloth as their owner wagged his head. 

“You should remember, Mr. Anholt,” observed the broker, “this flota- 
tion was an exceptionally easy one. It involved, we might say, the mere 
extending of what has proved a very profitable industry here, to America, 
and remains controlled by the same shareholders. Had this not been the 
case we should have experienced difficulty in obtaining any underwriting 
at all. Our profits here have been so large, however, and the prospects 
of doing business in America, as you have disclosed them, so alluring 
that we have had clear sailing.” 

“Not quite, Freddie, not quite!” and Mr. Donald MacDougal brought 
his little body up with a jerk. “I had many ruffles to smooth away — 
many, I must say! We’ve done creditably — all of us, and you, my dear 
sir” — turning to Anholt — “especially so. I consider it fortunate, quite, 

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that Freddie’s cousin induced you to come. It was neat, very neat on his 
part, I call it.” 

“It isn’t what I’ve done,” returned Anholt, “it’s what I propose doing 
that’s worth considering now. We’ve got the device and we’ve got the 
demand, with some forty thousand pounds to back us up. What we 
need now is brains. If I haven’t got enough — well, you’ll know it before 
the money’s gone. Now about that cheque” — speaking direct to Mr. 
Frederick Dublediehl ; “when can you fix me up ?” 

“Tonight. The secretary signed up this afternoon before returning 
to Leith. I’ll arrange it at the hotel later.” With these words the 
broker, catching Anholt’s eye, gave him a peculiar look, which was ren- 
dered entirely unintelligible by reason of the strangely disfigured face. 

“Oh, I say !” exclaimed the bewhiskered little financier, inspired by 
a — to him — most important recollection, “I must remind you, Mr. 
Anholt, really, to cable us your progress” — meaning by “us,” the broker 
and himself. “Cable often — quite often, I may say. Strictly in confi- 
dence, you ” 

Anholt interrupted him with a show of impatience. “I thought that 
proposition had been thoroughly threshed out with Mr. Dublediehl 
here. It’s utterly impossible. It would invalidate my contract at 
once. I don’t propose as Managing Director to start operations by 
violating the confidence of my Board, and you shouldn’t ask it. I don’t 
want to appear unreasonable,” he added in a less irritable tone, “but you 
can foresee the kind of a slump our shares would take if it accidentally 
developed that the executive head of the company was in cahoots with 
brokers and advancing them information. We’d call it a scheme to rig 
the stock market, over home.” 

“You needn’t fear that, Mr. Anholt,” the scar-visaged one interposed. 
“You understand, though, your contract is a mere matter of form — 
that is, you — I — it doesn’t bind you to ” 

Again Anholt checked an intended persuasive argument, which at the 
moment appeared likely to run astray. “Gentlemen, suppose we dis- 
pense with further discussion of this subject. My decision is irrevoc- 
able. I’ve made a number of concessions already to facilitate this 

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flotation, of which one or both of you have been beneficiaries, and 
entirely outside of our original agreement. That was a matter of policy 
solely. I consider this a matter of honor, and I trust you will both 
respect my attitude and, as we say in the States, ‘forget it.’ ” 

Later, in Anholt’s room at the Metropole, and after he had receipted 
for the small fortune of three thousand pounds in the form of a cheque 
on Parr’s, the subject was renewed by a remark of Dublediehl’s, Mr. Mac- 
Do ugal having left them for the night : 

“I assume, of course, that my cousin, as Resident Secretary, will be 
kept informed as to your orders and profits. You wouldn’t object if — ” 
For the third time that night Anholt, as he afterwards remarked, 
“flew off the handle.” 

“Now see here, my friend, your cousin’s contract contains the iden- 
tical prohibition on this advance information subject as my own, and 
he’s going to observe it, understand, as faithfully as I do, or one of us 
will go. You know, and I know, he’s totally unfitted for his position 
anyhow — morally and mentally. I consider your forcing him on the 
company a transaction discreditable to yourself and a rank imposition 
on our Directors. Not because of his past escapades, which seem to 
be pretty generally advertised around London here, but because right 
now he’s probably drunk, as he’s been for over two weeks past, and 
tied up with anywhere from one to half a dozen prostitutes. You’ve 
seen enough of the cablegrams sent me to know that’s straight. I’ll 
give him one chance — just one, and that’s all.” 

Mr. Frederick Dublediehl listened patiently to the unexpected out- 
burst. “I thought” — his words were obviously meant to be sarcastic — 
“that you were under some slight obligation to my cousin as well as to 
myself. I understand now, the positions are reversed.” 

Anholt smiled indulgently. “It’s gratifying to ascertain that you’ve 
corrected the misapprehension,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, your 
cousin has never been out of my debt, financially or morally, since the 
day I gave him work. Your obligation began later, when I refused, 
though offered more money than you could afford to pay, to associate 

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myself with the original Schnelhauser crowd, and it’s been increased 
by my silent acquiescence in this family rehabilitation game.” 

“I’m not disposed to recriminations, Mr. Anholt, or I might suggest 
the propriety of including an outsider in that last and very ungentle- 
manly remark. My cousin has a very unfortunate disposition, but I 
question the taste that makes it a matter of issue at this moment. A 
substantial cheque in one’s possession possesses, I observe, surprising 
virtues as a nerve tonic,” with which retort the broker calmly inter- 
ested himself in an American magazine lying on the adjoining stand. 

“Well,” returned Anholt, “wisdom and discretion are synonymous.” 
A minute later, with the subsidence of his temper, he mentally cursed 
himself as being an unfeeling and discourteous cad. Dublediehl, versed 
in the frailties and vagaries of the human mind, abided his time. 
Finally he glanced up at the other with what was intended to be a 
smile illuminating his marred countenance. Anholt, following the 
contagious example, answered in kind. 

“You’re sailing tomorrow,” said the broker. “What say for the last 
act at the Empire?” 

“Conditional,” agreed the American, “on a strict observance of the 
law, ‘Thus far’ and the rest, you know.” 

“Right you are !” and Dublediehl, who would have passed anywhere 
in the States as a native of the Republic, arose in preparation for de- 
parture. 

In fact, but few of the ordinary Britisher’s idiosyncrasies were notice- 
able in his language or manner; the words just uttered being as nearly 
typical of his countrymen’s style of speech as any that he used. He 
was an interesting character in many ways. Cultured and undemon- 
strative, with a keen eye to business and a smooth, convincing way, he 
possessed the faculty of influencing men to adopt his suggestions and 
advice, despite the presence of an intangible something cautioning them 
to beware. By birth a Manxman, though of German ancestry, his 
family later had settled in Surrey. His schooling had ended with 
Eton, from whose historic surroundings he had departed to matriculate 
as a broker’s clerk in Threadneedle Street. Gaining with experience 

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the impression that his Trafalgar was to be found in the Provinces 
rather than in the Metropolitan district, he eventually became identified 
as junior partner with an Edinburgh brokerage house, the result being 
that two years later his senior having died, he was left the sole owner of a 
very lucrative business. As with the way of youth, this sudden elevation in- 
spired him with an unconquerable desire to perform some startling finan- 
cial stunt intended to emphasize his worthiness to fill his predecessor’s 
boots; an ambition whose consequences were neither novel nor unex- 
pected. In time the successive shearings received at the hands of the staid 
and conservative Scotch members on the floor resulted in an observable de- 
terioration both in the quality and quantity of the wool — to such an extent, 
indeed, that technical grounds having been found justifying his suspen- 
sion from the privileges of the Exchange, he was turned loose to browse 
on mankind generally, but tagged with a courteous invitation to return 
when the virgin fields had yielded him sufficient nourishment to grow 
another crop. Having erased the sign telling of his Exchange member- 
ship from his office windows, he turned instinctively as a means of live- 
lihood to that somewhat dubious and ill-defined vocation designated as the 
promotion of public companies. With Mr. Donald MacDougal, whom he 
had known in London as a Stock Exchange member, but who, like himself , 
was just now creating instead of selling shares, he formed a sort of 
offensive and defensive alliance. Fortunately for them, their operations 
since that time, though small, had resulted in returning fairly satisfactory 
profits to their following of investors ; a condition of affairs that had con- 
duced materially to the success of this last flotation. A no less important 
factor, instrumental in bringing about the golden harvest, had been An- 
holt’s marvelously comprehensive statement of the American situation as 
it referred to the new company’s prospects, together with the plan devel- 
oped by him for conducting its affairs after the business should once be 
under way. Nor was the young man’s personality and convincing enthu- 
siasm a negligible quantity in shaping the result. Arriving less than a 
month before, the first draft of the proposed prospectus embodying his 
report had been submitted to all probable underwriters within a week. 
By the expiration of another seven days their approval, accompanied by 
the required cheques insuring their good faith, had been received. On 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 

Tuesday of the succeeding week the company went to the public. On 
Friday the subscription lists were closed with the issue oversubscribed, 
and the fourth week, at the end of which he was now about to sail, had 
been devoted to a series of Directors’ meetings, called for the purpose of 
perfecting the business policy he had outlined. With a total subscribed 
capital of eighty thousand pounds, forty thousand had been set aside as a 
working fund and for the equipment of a plant. Thirty thousand of the 
balance — of which fifteen thousand represented Dublediehl’s and Mac 
Dougal’s profits — was paid to the inventor, Adolph Schnelhauser. Three 
thousand pounds went to Anholt for his time and services and to reim- 
burse him for money spent; while the major portion of the remaining 
seven thousand covered the registration fee, advertising expenses, cost of 
printing, addressing and mailing prospectuses, solicitors’ charges, the 
underwriters’ commissions for guaranteeing half of the total issue, and 
brokerage costs. The Board of Directors consisted of the Honorable Albert 
Finley Bell, M. P., as Chairman; Anson Van Anholt, as Managing Direc- 
tor; and Messrs. Ernest Crowley, Rutherford Jones and Grant MacGregor 
— banker, solicitor and gentlemen, respectively, of Edinburgh. The re- 
muneration of the Board’s Chairman was to be two hundred pounds per 
annum ; that of the other members, one hundred pounds each. As addi- 
tional compensation a sum equal to five per cent, of the net earnings of the 
company, after ten per cent, in dividends had been paid the shareholders, 
was agreed upon. Plus the above the Managing Director was voted an 
annual salary of twenty-five hundred pounds; an added clause guaran- 
teeing him — should the company’s profits exceed twenty per cent, yearly — 
ten per cent, of all earned above that amount, after all Directors had been 
paid, as a premium for his work, — an inducement calculated to insure 
his striking an early and very rapid gait. 

Messrs. Frederick G. Dublediehl and Donald McDougal, for reasons 
doubtless obvious to the reader, were not considered eligible for mem- 
bership on the Board. Mr. S. Landseer Dublediehl, who according to 
program had been shifted by his cousin to the shoulders of the com- 
pany, was left to putter around with no specially defined duties, except 
to draw his monthly stipend of thirty pounds, the only condition being 

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that he remain now and forever out of his cousin’s sight. Thus was 
the truth and beauty of the “blood being thicker than water” adage 
again made manifest. 

Impelled as we are to view past circumstances in the light of present 
events, we can discern little but a roseate hue in conditions which have 
terminated to our advantage. Consequently, Anholt, notwithstanding 
the grave suspicions and doubts originally entertained by him as to 
the outcome of the gear negotiations, and despite his numerous contro- 
versies with Mr. Frederick Dublediehl, due to the latter’s thinly veiled 
desire to use him as a tool, stepped at last aboard ship, homeward 
bound, with a manner reflecting the spirit of good fellowship that 
warmed the cockles of his heart. Why should he, the bearer of a legiti- 
mate and well-earned victory, open his mind at a time like this to the 
dark possibilities of ultimate defeat? 


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CHAPTER VII. 

“'George Harry, if Hope and Bishop were only here! It’s like the 
missing link — lay your hands on it and you’ve nothing left to wish for,” 
and Anholt beamed down on his guests preparatory to carving the 
Christmas turkey. 

“And Bob, too, dear,” corrected the happy little woman, gazing half 
reproachfully at her husband from the other end of the table. “Poor, 
dear Bob !” she added reflectively. “I wonder where he ” 

“Yes, dearest,” interrupted the standing man hastily, “we all do, but 
the dead past doesn’t parade today,” a reprimand which he instantly 
regretted, and which brought the blush of confusion to Dorothy’s hith- 
erto cheer-inspiring face. 

“Our friend Anholt,” remarked the Reverend Melville Storey, with 
surprising promptitude, “holds first lien on that Mead past’ quotation. 
He’s arranged it with variations to suit all occasions and was never 
known to spring the right one. The last time I heard it was immedi- 
ately after Mr. Hope had asked his wife what delayed her mother at din- 
ner.” In the laughter following this bit of raillery — spontaneous tribute to 
the minister’s tact— »-Dorothy found a gratifying relief. 

“That explains,” she made bold to say, as Anholt with a shrug again 
turned his attention to the fowl, “why Van insists on having the words 
‘He meant well’ inscribed on his tombstone.” Then, woman like, hav- 
ing retaliated, she glanced appealingly at the man she loved for some 
signal of forgiveness. 

Ignoring both the sly thrust, provocative of increased merriment, and 
the subsequent beseeching look, the twice-struck target stared at the 
still undissected piece de resistance with a half puzzled, half irritated 
air. Finally, with a grim and determined look, he laid down the carv- 
ing outfit and addressed the hostess : 

“Was this animal marked for us?” 

Struck by the oddity of the question, she hesitated, then replied 
w’onderingly, “Why, yes, Van! what is wrong with it?” 

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“Everything’s wrong.” He picked the knife up again and jabbed the 
offending bird. “It should have gone down to State street, to the 
anatomical museum. This phenomenal ‘critter,’ ” he added, prodding 
it again, “hasn’t got anything that looks like a joint in its whole blessed 
body.” 

When the half dozen guests had partially regained their composure, 
Storey again proved himself an angel of relief. 

“You’re simply a victim, my friend, of a characteristic American 
fault. As a people we lack the proper reverence for many of the most 
charming tradition-born customs, of which to me, not the least delight- 
ful is the carving of the Christmas turkey.” 

With a look of relief Anholt tendered him the carver. 

“Speaking in a fatherly way,” observed the minister a moment later, 
as his skilful disarticulation of the joints evidenced his knowledge and 
practice, “I would suggest that by experimenting with, say, about one 
turkey a week for the next six months, you might ” 

“I think,” exclaimed Anholt, speaking as a man would who had just 
woke up, “I’ll have a leg.” 

“Which,” returned Storey, “since you’ve fingered it so thoroughly, 
you’ll get.” 

An hour before, Dorothy, with her arms around her husband’s neck, 
and with face suffused with the imprints of his many kisses, felt her 
cup of happiness filled to the overrunning stage. 

“It’s our golden Christmas, dearest,” she murmured as her lustrous 
eyes searched into the depths of his. 

“It’s a gift of God, darling,” he replied, softly stroking the dark hair 
from her forehead. “It is His recognition of your pure, self-sacrificing 
womanhood — this day and — that.” Her eyes followed his toward the 
floor. Hers were luminous with the divine tenderness of motherhood ; 
his sparkled with the light of proud possession. Both pairs rested on 
the choicest jewel of their owners’ lives — a chubby, cooing little babe, 
to whom just now the whole world was a paradise, with the trinkets 
in his hands the richest treasures of the realm. 

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It was a picture which in the dreams and imagination of transcendent 
genius might be for an instant reproduced, but the beauty of which no 
skill, no experience or technique could transfer to the painted cloth, 
and by perpetuating it immortalize the worker of the wondrous achieve- 
ment. 

To this man, apparently, and to his wife, undoubtedly, the serenity and joy 
promised nineteen centuries ago to doers of the Master’s will, had now, 
on the anniversary of His natal day, assumed dominion in their hearts. 
Downstairs, their friends, proved by the test of adversity and time, placed 
the final touch upon this masterpiece created in the atmosphere of honest 
purposes and love. 

There was Marie, beneath whose loyal, brilliant womanhood was blank- 
eted the ashes of her childhood’s hopes. There was Storey, rare combina- 
tion of the practical and ideal ; far-seeing, diplomatic and sincere ; whose 
bon homie, defiant of all natural laws, attacked the clouds of blank 
despair, forcing the silvery lining before and not behind their sombre face. 
There was Anholt’s mother, whose eyes and countenance reflected her 
unalterable faith in the ultimate triumph of a consistent Christian life ; 
whose prayers, eloquent in their simplicity, were incessant pleadings for 
Divine guidance of an ofttimes faltering son. There was his sister, of 
delicate health and sensitive mind, whose moods, changeable as her 
brother’s fortunes, were gay or saddened as he experienced smiles or 
frowns — a noble, generous-hearted girl ; in spite of her physical weakness, 
self-reliant and independent of another’s aid; self-supporting, if need be, 
and possessor of no meagre place in Anholt’s heart and thoughts. There 
was David Eastman, born in the whirlwind of human passions and saved 
from the debris in its wake to become a butt and target for self-absolved 
society. And lastly there was Manheim Burgess, whose god was Art; 
whose antonym was consistency ; whose life was one perpetual, radiant 
dream, with fancy ranging from his ascendency in the impressionistic 
school, to the creatorship of a universally accepted constitution for the rule 
of humankind, which latter phase of his eccentric mind will prove explan- 
atory of his presence here. 


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Marie, profiting by Mr. Carter’s tender of a full week’s vacation, had, 
after giving the most explicit instructions as to her baby’s care and insur- 
ing its contentment by a wonderful collection of Christmas duds and toys, 
taken the shortest route to the second city in the land, while Storey, for 
reasons which were entirely satisfactory to himself, decided that Anholt 
particular^ needed his advice and services at this especial time ; all of 
which conduced to bring about a reunion under conditions peculiarly 
gratifying to each participant. 

Let us revert now to the scene of expectant faces and watering mouths. 
Somebody had made reference to an unexpected inheritance, of which 
Storey, under conditions rather unusual, was to be the recipient. 

“When does the unworthy legatee touch the rustling notes?” The 
succulent piece of meat was poised midway between the plate and 
Anholt’s mouth. , 

The minister, having a proper regard for his physical well being, con- 
tinued the steady operation of his maxillaries until the twenty-seventh 
count was reached. “Three years from this day week, my friend, which is the 
selfsame date on which certain gentlemen well known to both of us will 
brand themselves insane.” 

“No three years by a long shot, if the gear business keeps up,” retorted 
Anholt. “Another year of Schnelhauser prosperity and we’ll buy the 
Philippines for a demonstration ground. That million of yours won’t be 
a circumstance.” 

“I just think that’s grand, the way Mr. Anholt is succeeding with his 
company. Don’t you, Mr. Storey?” and Marie, whose pleasure was pro- 
claimed in eyes as well as words, glanced at the big-hearted wearer of 
the cloth. 

“I’m not surprised,” replied the fortunate individual addressed. “Our 
friend always seemed to be at home wherever wheels were spinning 
round. Not,” he added hastily, “that I incline to the figurative .” 

Anholt, checking him with the suggestion that he rake his mind for a 
joke less threadbare, was in turn interrupted by Dorothy’s observing 
that “Probably Mr. Storey would need his fortune anyhow.” 

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“By the time he gets it,” she added, “you’ll all be in such a muddle that 
you’ll need the money to pay your fines and settle with the misguided 
victims;” to which her husband with a smile robbing the words of any 
sting, replied, expressing the belief that were it a matter solely of finding 
traitors in the camp they “needn’t necessarily go to the Philippines to find 
them.” 

“Speaking of gifts,” remarked Marie, lowering her demi-tasse, “I do 
think Dorothy received the sweetest one.” 

“As a matter of fact,” said Storey, “I’ve been more or less hypnotized 
by its sparkle ever since Anholt began chopping the turkey. Another 
cup? Yes — thanks! Not, you will observe, that my digestive machinery 
is affected by that peculiar state of mind.” 

Dorothy, dropping the offending hand to her lap, looked up with a 
conscious, guilty blush enhancing the beauty of her countenance. Marie, 
with a reproving gesture turned to the gourmet at her side. 

“Why will you not be serious !” she exclaimed. “It wasn’t the ring I 
meant at all. It was the most beautiful greeting from little Stanley she 
found this morning in her er under the mantel, I mean.” 

Storey, irresistibly impelled to laugh, dropped his cup with a crash that 
for the moment relieved Marie of the amused glances leveled at her crim- 
son face. 

“I wrote Anholt a month ago,” he finally managed to say, “that his 
precocious heir would be tackling Spencer’s Synthetic Philosophy by the 
first of the year. Did he typewrite it?” he queried, an aggravatingly inno- 
cent look taking possession of his face. 

Marie whose features wore a pretty pout, was saved the necessity of a 
reply by the intervention of the raven-haired Burgess : 

“I read it,” he exclaimed. “It’s an artistic triumph — a literary gem. 
It’s a sermon, my dear sir, which I must urge on you to read. Ah, the 
sentiment, the sentiment !” and he shook his head slowly, as one might do 
in expressing regret at some great and irreparable loss. 

“Another custom,” remarked Storey, addressing nobody in particular, 
“revered by many of our ancestors was the closing of such happy func- 
tions as the present one with a few words appropriate to the day. I’m 

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going to invite myself to perform this somewhat difficult task — consider- 
ing my rather inflated condition, for the sole purpose of gazing on that 
precious document. ‘Out of the mouth of babes/ you know, much wis- 
dom has crept into this world. Will somebody kindly pass the sermon?” 

“You people,” growled Anholt, “can spring more tomfoolery than 
Marseleen could ever conjure up.” 

“Now dear !” — there was the slightest touch of rebuke in Dorothy’s 
voice — “I think Mr. Storey ought to see it. I’m going to get it for him, 
anyhow.” 

Her husband gave a gesture of resignation. “I hope for the love of 
peace, he remembers it’s the sermon, not the text,” and he settled back, 
wondering gloomily about the quality of certain waiting Perfectos. 

“This,” observed the minister a minute later, as his eyes traveled rapidly 
over the paper in his hand, “is a sermon. The little chap we all have 
learned to love so well sends it as a Christmas greeting to our friends. I 
am going to read it to you all, and as I do so let each select some thought 
to carry in the heart; some helpful lesson from this message of a little 
child. Let me read 

“‘For mama and papa: This is my first Christmas. I wonder if 
throughout my life the peace and sunshine of this day will come and come 
again with each recurring year. Today I could but give a smile to those 
I love. ’Twas all I had to give, but it spread content and happiness within 
their hearts. The skies seemed all the bluer ; the day a golden milestone on 
life’s way — a Christmas that from year to year, so long as recollection 
lives, will remain to them a tender, priceless memory. Only six short 
months of my uncertain journey passed ; only a glimpse of this curious, 
wonderful world, with here and there a transient, infant joy — a few for- 
forgotten pains, smothered in the caress and magic of a mother’s love. 
Only a strange, confusing fantasy of lights and shadows; of cries and 
laughter; of funny looking frowns, and fleeting, captivating smiles. 
Nothing of envy; nothing of malice; nothing within the mystic warp and 
woof of my short life but innocence and pure, God-given love. Yet little 
as I am my smiles today are never lost. They light the way to Christ of 
those I love. They bring pleasure, happiness and peace. My little infant 

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chuckles thrill the heart’s responsive chords with rapturous delight. The 
soul beneath their influence expands to nobler things and radiates good 
will and charity and hope to fellow men. Who will say that I am but a 
helpless, powerless thing ? Who will claim that I can do no wondrous deeds ? 
Who will contend the pathway to the Christly presense is not the brighter for 
those kindly acts, those gentle words, which later help to sweeten memory 
like blossoming and fragrant flowers, and whose origin was found in the 
influence of my tiny self? Who will dispute the never-ending power for 
good that springs to being in my gleeful shout? May this one ennobling 
truth be ever cherished as I sail on life’s uncharted sea ! May the recol- 
lection of this day, by some great miracle abide with me until the twilight 
merges into never-ending night! In its remembrance may I feel self- 
sacrifice a joy ; in its lesson find a safe and ever-gleaming guide-post on my 
road! My comical, infant ways and cooing notes are Heaven born. My 
thoughts keep wandering back to Paradise from whence I came. My 
sparkling eyes are like the glistening dewdrops of the clear, Celestial 
dawn. They inspire the ones I love to purer thoughts; to resolutions 
framed for human good; to gentleness; to mercy; to forgiveness of the 
erring ones. I wield an influence imperishable as time. My sceptre is 
innocence ; my badge of sovereignty is love ; my realm, the hearts and 
souls of men. No mortal hands have left their imprints on my laws. They 
have survived the test of time. They will remain unaltered until the last 
resplendent day. Until then we’ll never know the measure of their worth. 
And so throughout my life — whatever else to give I lack, may my smiles 
forever shine ! May they ever bear as on this day, tidings of joy, of peace 
and hope ; inspiring men to generous and uplifting deeds ! May I learn 
to spread them out broadcast! May my heart at all times feel the love 
and charity my face proclaims ! May my eyes be truthful ; my friendships 
long ; my helping hand be guided by no selfish aim or thought ! May I, 
on each succeeding Christmas, learn some sublime, some precious truth! 
May the sense of obligation to my fellowmen increase as years pass by! 
May I ever walk uprightly, in close communion — not in fear of Him who 
gave me breath ! May I with faithfulness and pride perform the honest 

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duties of each hour, as God shall give me mind to see and hands 
to do !’ ” 

Storey, who had been standing, laid the paper down and crossed his 
hands. 

“These beautiful words,” he said softly, “found their inspiration in a 
much beloved babe. The hand that penned them was the father’s, but 
behind it all stands out in bold outline, the one triumphant, powerful and 
resistless sentiment we recognize as love, and love, my friends, is God. 
To Him, therefore, may we not for just one minute turn, praying His 
Divine assistance in following the path so exquisitely shown ?” 

By Marie, this opportunity to hide her gathering tears, was welcomed 
as a blessed relief. Dorothy, who had been watching her with eyes sus- 
piciously moist, for the first time realized the torture she had unwittingly 
imposed upon her friend. With the rising lump within her throat came 
a full appreciation of the other’s unutterable and hopeless misery. Long- 
ing to throw her arms around the suffering woman and kiss away the 
evidence of her pain, she was checked by fear of the interpretation such 
an action might receive. With mingled feelings of self-condemnation and 
pity for the unrelievable loneliness of the other’s lot, she could only 
remain silent, and hope that somewhere in the prayer now being offered, 
her friend would find a comforting and helping thought. 

Five minutes later, the ladies, accompanied by David Eastman, who, in 
Anholt’s mother had found a sympathetic listener to his views, left the 
gentlemen to their cigars. “An exodus,” the host had remarked, “which 
differed chiefly from that of the Israelites, in that Moses now tarried 
behind to dabble with the flesh pots to which insinuation the minister 
had made retort that “at least one commendable virtue of the ancients 
appeared to be extinct,” and recalled that “out of respect for the departing 
female contingent, even the Red Sea had for a time dried up.” Then, 
having satisfied himself that no chair sufficiently large and comfortable 
decorated the dining room, he started on a reconnaissance of the adjoin- 
ing rooms. Anholt, long since initiated into this phase of the minister’s 
makeup, turned indifferently to Burgess. 

“Any more counterfeits in the galleries?” he inquired. 

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The artist, having declined an invitation to test the quality of the dark 
Havanas, completed his skillful rolling of a cigarette. 

“Not recently,” he replied after a time; “but the dreadful possibility 
remains. Disheartening — awfully, to genius, you know!” and he stared 
with a melancholy countenance at the wall. 

“What,” asked his host, “is the matter with your long-haired fraternity 
adopting the finger-print wrinkle ? It looks to me as if .” 

“An inspiration, my good fellow!” exclaimed Burgess, saved from his 
impending trance. “What originality you possess! Ah, what an idea! 
You must accept my thanks, my dear Mr. Anholt — you must really.” 

For the time being, further conversation was prevented by the entrance 
of Storey, pushing a massive chair of the Morris type. Having more or 
less successfully engineered it through the doorway, leaving a trail of 
scratches sufficiently visible to indicate his course, he brought it up with 
a turn, directly facing the fire, selected his cigar, settled himself comfort- 
ably, and was lost a minute later to the world. 

Anholt again broke the silence. “Burgess,” he said, “do you know I 
have often wondered whether it is lack of originality or lack of courage 
that restrains you — I refer to artists in general — from reproducing on 
canvas and in stone the human figure in its most lovable and exalted form ? 
You play with nudity in man, woman and child; but in the woman’s case 
you confine yourself to the one least attractive type. You’ve taken square 
and rule, and figured out what you term the exact proportions and perfect 
contour of the female form, and you build your masterpieces all on this 
one unvarying rule — maiden thus and matron so and so. Whether you 
place her at Belshazzar’s feast, on Cleopatra’s float, in Paradise or Hell, 
the rule is worked the same. But neither brush nor chisel, so far as I have 
seen, has reproduced her in the form that Heaven loves — in her state of a 
prospective motherhood ; in the tenderest, most beautiful period of her life, 
Where every hour is rich in thrills of mixed anxiety and hope; where a 
soul is being made for all eternity ; where two lives now, instead of one, 
will tremble in the balance until the eventful day ; where man and wife are 
closer drawn than they ever were before; where soothing words and 
carefully guarded lips, succeed to half indifference and complaints ; where 

[ 813 ] 


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Christ draws nearer and earth seems fairer than at any other time. 
Burgess — man ! you and your profession have slept through all the ages. 
You revel in accomplished motherhood — when the doubts, and fears, and 
anxious hours are past. You’re safe then, though the child is but five 
minutes old. You insult the rules of decency by reproductions of baccha- 
nalian orgies with nudity rampant, but your sensitive, artistic soul revolts 
at picturing the most sublime experience known to human life. When all 
else fails, we look to art as a preserver of the truth. Instead of that she 
clings to the ideal as figured out on geometric lines, and shrugs her 
shoulders at the honest thing.” 

Anholt, pausing, looked curiously at Burgess. The latter, whose counte- 
nance by this time mirrored the dazed condition of his mind, tried inef- 
fectually to frame, on behalf of himself and the fraternity in general, a 
coherent reply to this startling and unexpected expression of his host’s 
opinions. Storey, accustomed by experience to hearing what he termed 
“Anholt’s venting of surplus steam, regardless of whether the circum- 
stances particularly called for it or not,” puffed serenely away, entirely too 
comfortable to bother himself trying to follow the devious bypaths of this 
latest harangue. 

“But, my dear fellow !” — the machinery of the artist’s mind was again 
in running order. “Even art must draw a line somewhere. I should be a 
sacrilegist, really, to put brush to such a theme as you suggest. Ah ! you 
do it cleverly, though. You must .” 

“Oh, bosh !” retorted Anholt. “Don’t talk to me about its being too 
sacred a topic for the brush. If it is, throw out your Madonnas, Christs, 
and all your works that breathe of Heaven, God, and love. You want to be 
original. Get busy — go out and look around until you see a woman, 
loose attired, walking slowly, cautiously along the street. Note the man 
supporting her — the man who never had the time to walk with her before. 
Observe his tender look ; the strangely happy light within her eyes. Attend 
to the solicitude in his voice and her grateful, low toned reply. Watch for 
the countless evidences of their reunited hearts. You’ll see all this and 
more. Then hunt your studio and go to work. Not some mere suggestion, 
man, as ventured now and then by the most courageous of your crowd- 

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but tell the truth — the whole beautiful, God-given, heaven-blessed, endur- 
ing truth. Originate a new school — specialize ; that’s your cue !” 

Having thus simultaneously eased his mind and shot his bolt at Bur- 
gess, Anholt directed his attention to another smoke; a pleasure which, 
like the artist’s proposed defense, was indefinitely postponed in obedience 
to Dorothy’s command calling them to herself and friends. 

As the artist, still wondering at his host’s voluntary dissertation on a 
subject so universally tabooed, started for the library, where a monster 
Christmas tree, more appropriate for a juvenile asylum than for a baby 
six months old, had been rigged up by the enthusiastic father, the latter 
turned to Storey and remarked : 

“I hated to, but I’ve simply got to jar him loose referring thereby 
to his perpetual bombardment by Burgess with ideas and suggestions 
which the man of art insisted should be incorporated in his friend’s plan 
for the cure of social ills; a plan with which the artist had become con- 
versant through a letter sent him by his old classmate, Powers, of New 
York City. 

“My only safety,” Anholt had explained to Storey, “is to be found in 
making him think I’m crazier than he is himself ;” in accordance with 
which policy he had played his hand today. 

“My friend,” replied the minister, to the other’s expression of regret 
at the course he was pursuing, “there was just one man in the room who 
believed exactly what you said, and it was neither Mr. Burgess nor 
myself.” 


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CHAPTER VIII. 

The consistent and rapid expansion of business, which, under Anholt’s 
management had raised the hopes of shareholders in The Schnelhauser 
Gear of America, Limited, and incidently the value of their shares, was 
due in no small measure to the Managing Director’s disregard for con- 
ventionalism and his propensity for achieving through some startling, 
brilliant maneuver, results which ordinarily, to insure their permanence, 
should be based upon a calm, impartial consideration by the customer of 
arguments advanced in behalf of the seller’s goods. Whatever doubts 
as to the wisdom of Anholt’s policy may have at first entered the minds 
of his associates on the Board, they were, in the light of increasing orders 
and heavy bank balances, rapidly dispersed. Having been given carte 
blanche in his operations and being hampered by no restraining arm from 
across the sea, he had inaugurated a campaign of publicity which kept 
the advertising agency as busy disavowing its authorship, as it did the 
critical Dublediehl in writing out cheques — which cheques, by the way, 
Anholt and his General Manager were both required to sign. Lecturers, 
amply compensated, addressed technical institutes, labor organizations 
and mechanics wherever found, on what they styled the “most potent 
agency for economy and efficiency ever introduced to the machinery 
world.” Master mechanics, superintendents of plants, engineers, editors 
of trade journals and buyers for progressive manufacturing concerns 
were, paradoxical as it may seem, converted if not convinced, and helped 
swell the acclamatory wave which threatened to submerge half the ma- 
chinery owners in the country under insistent demands of employees for 
the installation of the new invention. And, if to convert means to pay, 
who so finical as to accuse Anholt of violating the ethics of modern com- 
mercialism? Who indeed, unless it be Dublediehl, with his ineradicable 
tendency to bewail the success of anyone or anything, and in whose vol- 
uminous reports to “Cousin Fred,” the “bloomin’ stir” that Anholt’s “rot” 
had made, was invariably deplored? Who likewise contended that such 
conditions could never last, and prophesied a grand explosion, with a 

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resultant cloud of smoke casting its shadow all the way to Scotland; — 
another case of wish begetting thought and the cause of some astonishing 
gyrations in the Provincial Exchanges by this particular company’s shares ; 
a performance terminating, on a statement being made by the Directors, of 
the actual profits and results, in a higher quotation than before. As a 
matter of fact, the Schnelhauser gear possessed such manifest and decided 
merits as to insure the company a long and profitable life, provided a safe 
and efficient management controlled its destinies. Had the value of the 
invention been less obvious; had it not been proved a practical and eco- 
nomical device; had the trade conditions been unfavorable, or the trade 
itself antagonistic to the new improvement, Dublediehl’s predictions 
might to some extent have appeared justified, and his criticism of Anholt’s 
policy, honestly conceived. Had a probability existed that dealers, once 
loaded up with the company’s goods, would find them a white elephant on 
their hands, thus eliminating any prospect of a heavy future demand, 
the advertising tactics adopted might rightfully have been characterized 
as bordering on sharp practice, and the expenditures involved as an indi- 
rect filching of the corporation’s funds. None of these conditions existed 
however, and the Managing Director, imbued with the idea that quick 
sales meant early profits, refused to recognize a conservatism satisfied 
to accomplish in a year what he believed aggressiveness could effect 
within the month. In the quality of the article, he contended, would be 
found a sufficient defense for his somewhat spectacular course; a con- 
tention which, in view of the constantly growing business, his fellow Direc- 
tors most heartily endorsed. 

Not that Messrs. Frederick Dublediehl and Donald MacDougal, in 
Scotland, and Mr. S. Landseer Dublediehl, in America, failed to use due 
diligence in their efforts to discredit Anholt’s work; but because the 
Directors, loyal to that legal axiom which presumes every man innocent 
until proved otherwise, and having the history of the Dublediehls before 
them, spent little time in determining on which side of the fence to look 
for trickery and fraud. Thus we see the widening gulf between the 
Dublediehls and MacDougal on one side, and the honest Directors — who, 
to insure the company’s successful flotation the promoters had induced 

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to serve— on the other. In truth, these self-same promoters were just 
now treading a prickly and uncertain path. Deceived first in their belief 
that Anholt would prove to be a willing tool, and thereby — when too late 
for representation on the Board, — forced to rely upon S. Landseer Duble- 
diehl as their only source of news, they were made to pay the piper in a 
double sense. Sacrificing their own holdings because of the gloomy 
outlook as described by their correspondent, and influencing their inti- 
mates to follow suit, they found themselves on the publication of the 
company’s real condition, described as little short of thieves. Charged 
with the wilful circulation of misstatements derogatory to the corpora- 
tion they had formed, they were restrained on their own, as well as on their 
informer’s account, from disclosing the channel through which their infor- 
mation came — information which, had it been correct, would have earned 
them thanks instead of suits at law. Nor were they able to extract any 
consolation from the gradually accumulating mass of suspicions, infer- 
ences, and authenticated reports reflecting on Anholt’s past, industriously 
gathered by the third member of this threatened and disgruntled trium- 
virate. Even if the nearing probe should touch the carefully guarded 
vital spot, it would but increase rather than mitigate the peril of their 
position. In vouching for Anholt’s character and reputation at a 
time when such endorsement was necessary to their purpose, they had 
compromised themselves irrevocably. As yet, however much they may 
have criticised his business methods, they had sedulously refrained from 
attacking his integrity. Their sole hope now, both for reinstatement in 
the confidence of their former followers and for the privilege of becom- 
ing jubilant participants in the melon slicing ceremony, lay in the possi- 
bility of their bringing about the present Managing Director’s retirement, 
either by resignation or removal, and in securing the appointment of a 
more pliant individual as his successor. But to accomplish this result 
without sinking deeper in the mire themselves — that would require a 
master hand at jugglery, indeed. All of which constituted a not alto- 
gether unsuspected situation, so far as the subject of their enmity was 
concerned. 


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To briefly summarize: The business was an assured success; the 
Directors were satisfied; Messrs. Frederick Dublediehl and Donald Mac 
Dougal were discredited; Anholt must therefore be deposed; and Mr. S. 
Landseer Dublediehl, stool pigeon, player of both ends against the middle, 
reputation assassin and provider of damp ammunition to his co-conspira- 
tors, was busy covering up his tracks from his Managing Director’s eyes. 

That this same Dublediehl retained his position on sufferance alone, 
was thoroughly understood by him. He knew that Anholt was acquainted 
with many of his moral delinquencies, but whether to the mere extent of 
his frequent carousals, against which no provision had been made in his 
contract, or to his more serious breaches of the moral — if not, in fact of 
the criminal code, he had been unable to ascertain. 

To Anholt, knowing the fellow to be a debauchee, believing him to be 
the originator of reports inimical to the company’s well being, and 
shrewdly suspecting him of profiting in several ways at the corporation’s 
expense, the situation presented a grave and increasingly distressing 
aspect. How much did the Englishman know? On the reply to that 
alone, could he safely base decided action. That Dublediehl, once dis- 
missed, would spread his information broadcast, with such elaborations 
as would tend to whet the appetite of sensationalists and insure the 
downfall of the man who had succored him in time of need, was unques- 
tionable. But did this knowledge extend to the one hideous, awful truth? 
There lay the crux of the whole complicated affair. If proof existed of 
actual criminality on Dublediehl’s part, and if Anholt secured possession 
of such proof, would the latter’s position be any more secure? Or was 
he not indeed, as matters stood, at the mercy of the other’s whims? A 
singular state of circumstances truly, that made the Dublediehls, Mac 
Dougal and himself, both slaves and masters in the same strange mess. 

Within the month immediately preceding the Christmas holidays, two 
incidents occurred, helping rather to augment than to simplify the ques- 
tions thus involved. One was the pressing by a leading machinery house, 
of a demand on Dublediehl for the repayment of some three hundred 
dollars paid him by its manager as a commission, or rebate, on the sale of 
certain lathes to the Schnelhauser company, which lathes proving unsat- 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


isfactory, were subsequently returned in accordance with the contract and 
the invoice price refunded. The machinery manufacturers claimed that 
the Englishman, who had first advised them of his company’s requirement 
for this line of goods, had promised to guarantee them against any loss 
resulting from their return. On the other hand, the aggrieved defendant 
denied any knowledge whatsoever of the transaction, protested vigorously 
against the defamatory charge, and dramatically defied them to produce 
any written evidence, signed by him, tending to involve him in so dishon- 
orable a deal — a challenge obviously failing of acceptance. So far as the 
gear company was concerned it could lose nothing; a fact which Duble- 
diehl had taken pains to emphasize when called by Anholt to account. To 
the latter’s warning that any more developments of the kind would result 
in a change in the Resident Secretary’s office, the Englishman had 
promptly retorted that he would be “jolly glad to break away from his 
Botany Bay type of associates, anyhow a reply rather welcomed than 
otherwise by his superior, promising as it did an entire and voluntary 
removal of the mask of hypocrisy which the fellow had been wearing 
heretofore. No other phase of Dublediehl’s treacherous disposition was 
so entirely abominable in his Managing Director’s opinion, as that which 
induced his invariable carrying of an assumed friendly air in the presence 
of those whom he proposed knifing at the first turning of their backs. 
To all men smirks and bows in front — sneers and stabs behind ; such was 
S. Landseer Dublediehl — moral monstrosity, human thing; devoid appar- 
ently of a sole redeeming trait. 

The second incident, which in chronological order, by the way, came 
first, and which materially aided in impressing the Englishman’s 
retort on Anholt’s mind, consisted in the very commonplace fact of a 
letter having been received by his calumniator — an ordinary occurrence in 
itself, but which, to the Managing Director, glancing over the morning’s 
batch of mail, assumed a tragic coloring in view of the chirography form- 
ing the address; a style of writing proclaiming the authorship of the 
enclosed communication as clearly as if the signature itself was visible; 
as surely as if Mr. Samuel Withers’ corner card stared him defiantly in 
the face. 


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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 

No small proportion of the conversation which had kept Storey and his 
friend engaged in the former’s room until the early hours of the morning 
succeeding Christmas day, revolved around the conditions we have just 
described. If there was some division of sentiment as to what Anholt’s 
future attitude should be, they fully agreed on one important point ; namely, 
that an open rupture with the Dublediehls should, if possible, be deferred 
until the end of the company’s fiscal year. 

This conclusion reached, Anholt glancing at the clock, uttered an 
exclamation of surprise, tossed the unsmoked portion of his cigar in the 
grate, and prepared to bid the minister good night. Storey, raising his 
hand, motioned for the other to resume his seat. 

“There’s just one question more, friend, and it has to do with me. I’ll 
state the case and then I want your answer; just ‘yes’ or ‘no’ — nothing 
more.” The big fellow, with crossed hands, continued for a moment gaz- 
ing at the dying coals. Anholt, in dread, awaited what he believed would 
be the inquisition against which for two days past he had endeavored to 
steel himself. 

“My friend,” began Storey with an appearance of calmness belying the 
forebodings in his heart, “I love a woman. You know that. You know 
her name. I believe she cares for me. I’m not worthy of her. I never was — 
never hope to be. I could make her happy — that I know, if somehow, 
sometime, I should be blessed with such a right. But, my friend, there’s 
a barrier she claims to be impassable, standing between us. I don’t — 
unless in your good judgment I can tear it down — want to know its nature. 
But I do want your answer, one way or the other, on this point. Would 
she be happier in claiming me merely as her friend than as — her husband ; 
than to rest within my arms and be sheltered by my love? You know 
her, Anholt; answer, ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ 

When his friend stopped, Anholt, hesitating and yet compelled to speak, 
struggled to devise a reply, which while honest, would still inspire the 
minister with hope. The latter’s tact had made this less difficult than he 
had feared, but to give it in a single word was neither possible nor fair to 
either Storey or Marie. 


[221] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“Old chap,” he said finally, “I can’t reply with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no but 
I’ll make it short enough. If I were in your place, I’d never rest until she 
gave herself to me. I’d wage a merry battle. I’d persevere. I’d go 
through Hell to get her; and Storey” — his face grew very low — “if I 
found her there I’d pledge my own soul, if need should be, to pay for her 
release. To me, the noblest, purest, truest women of this or any other time, 
are my mother, my sister and my wife. Then, on the pedestal just below 
them, stands Marie. I say this from the bottom of my heart, regardless 
of her past, her present, or of anything to come. And you, dear fellow !” 
— he was now standing, with his hand resting on the shoulder of his 
friend, — “you, by virtue of your ownership of every manly trait; by 
reason of your godliness; your charity; your self-sacrificing work and 
love, possess a valid claim upon the consideration of this jewel of woman- 
hood. I don’t believe your title will be recognized without a long and 
patient fight. But you’ve got my help — and Dorothy’s. Keep up your 
nerve ! Go in and win ! That’s my answer, old chap — and now — good 
night !” — 

No words. A warm and lingering pressure of the hands. That was all. 


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CHAPTER IX.. 

Following the return of Storey and Marie to New York at the close of 
the Christmas holidays, Anholt again turned his attention to furthering 
his company’s interests, determined to solidify and strengthen them to an 
extent precluding more than a temporary slump in the value of Gear shares 
should a realization of his worst fears occur. Successfully disguising his 
apprehension of impending trouble from Dorothy behind the enthusiasm 
with which he elaborated upon the company’s business and prospects, 
he sought in the atmosphere of his home a surcease of anxiety and dread ; 
a search prolific more frequently of rising lumps and smothered sighs 
than unalloyed happiness and peace. The penitential’s spirit in fact, 
was being sorely tried — the theory placing Purgatory upon this earth, 
becoming more and more a demonstrated truth. With the passing of 
weeks however, and in the absence of new developments indicating more 
than the customary activity on Dublediehl’s part looking to his superior’s 
discomfiture, Anholt found some encouragement for his hope of rounding 
out at least a full year’s service with the company. From the gradual 
and gratifying cessation of threatening communications from the East, 
he extracted no small amount of relief; a sensation intensified by his 
knowledge of an unmistakable change of sentiment in his favor, among 
his old associates, and which was referred to in every letter from his 
friends. 

In early February, Bishop and Storey, on a mission unexplained in 
their brief notices of departure, sailed unexpectedly for the south of 
France. From Marie, who covered the event in a letter suspiciously long 
and detailed, a hint touching on their motive was received, inasmuch as 
she stated that if the trip, which “had to do with Mr. Bishop’s future, 
was successful, it would tickle Mr. Anholt half to death;” a statement 
which together with Storey’s enigmatical postscript to his very unsatis- 
factory letter, in which he said that on their return “Bishop would prob- 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


ably open up,” gave the puzzled man abundant food for conjecture, how- 
ever little it may have helped him to the truth. 

A week subsequent to the sailing of his friends, Anholt received a 
telegram which temporarily relegated all thoughts of his own troubles 
to the companionship of minor considerations. Forwarded as a night 
message by Marie, it had been delivered at the company’s office before 
his arrival there in the morning — a fearsome bomb concealed within a 
cover small and innocent to the view. It read, following the address : 

“Bob arrested charged with killing Essingham. Letter and newspapers 
following. What shall I do in absence Storey, Bishop. Hope also 
away. Answer. 

Marie.” 

The reply, “Get lawyer, my expense. Awaiting details,” was on the wires 
in a time so incredibly short as to induce its sender, studying his watch 
in his office later, to wonder whether it actually had been sent, or if his 
brain, stunned by the unexpected blow, was not playing him some scurvy 
trick. Leaving instructions that on no account should he for the present 
be disturbed, he locked the door to his private room and neglecting to 
remove either overcoat or hat, settled himself in a chair to think. 

“There isn’t a blessed thing I can do,” was the conclusion he reached, 
“until I get that letter. I wonder — Great Heavens ! if they should ring 
me in on this as they did when Happy-go-lucky Joe was caught; that 
would be the last crook in the letter “s” of finis. It isn’t — it can’t be 
possible, and yet — ” 

He sat like a man transfixed ; his lips dry, and the perspiration standing 
in beads on his pallid brow. On looking at him one might have thought 
that the man, struck suddenly by the sombre hand, had passed to the 
Great Beyond. Then came that characteristic toss of the head, signifying 
his transition from a state of utter dejection to one of resignation; not 
the entirely passive kind, but the one which, if the worst promises to 
appear, determines to receive it gracefully, yet fights manfully and to the 
last to lessen the impact of the blow. To the motto of Monte Cristo, 
“Wait and hope,” he had learned to add the third essential word — work. 

If the ensuing twenty-four hours were among the most anxious ones 
of his life ; if the hopes and fears alternately ruling his thoughts deprived 

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him both of appetite and sleep ; if he began once more to question the 
justice of a Divine Tribunal, neither by word nor action was it manifested 
at his office or his home. And when at last the information came, relieving 
him of suspense on his own account, the facts, to all appearances pointing 
to his former protege’s guilt, left him but little easier than before. Strip- 
ped of inconsequential verbiage the newspaper reports, more intelligible 
than the letter of Marie, simmered down to this: 

“At three o’clock this morning, while attempting to arrest Robert Mac 
Namara, whom he had discovered in the act of robbing the drug store of 

Louis Bechtel at No. Columbus Avenue, Detective Joseph Essing- 

ham, formerly of the Central Office, and more recently connected with 
Lowenthal’s Private Inquiry Bureau, was shot by the fleeing burglar and 
died an hour later in Roosevelt Hospital. MacNamara, who is now 
behind the bars, charged with the crime, is a cocaine fiend and a character 
well known to the police. Essingham, when found by Patrolman Davis 
of the West 110th Street Station ten minutes after the shooting, was lying 
unconscious under the scaffolding erected in front of the new Randolph 

Apartment building at Columbus Avenue and Street. Davis, 

after summoning the ambulance and examining the dying man more 
carefully, recognized in him an old fellow officer, with whom he had 
served in the Oak Street Precinct. On arrival at the hospital the surgeon 
in charge of the emergency ward pronounced the case hopeless. On the 
detective’s forehead was a jagged gash, evidently the result of a rough 
stone thrown at short range. Directly behind the left ear was a wound 
made by a 38 calibre bullet and the immediate cause of his death. Ten 
minutes before he expired, Essingham recovered consciousness long 
enough to make a short ante-mortem statement. In it he charged Mac 
Namara, whom he had intercepted in the act of escaping through the side 
entrance to the drug store, with the shooting. There had been a scuffle 
and before the officer could iron his man the latter managed to break 
away, and making for the corner started up the Avenue. Looking back 
he saw Essingham gaining on him and picking up a rock, threw it at his 
pursuer, striking him in the face. The shot was fired later, as the detec- 
tive lay unconscious on the ground. Essingham had not observed Mac 
Namara drawing his gun. He had arrested the man before and was 
positive in his identification. 

An examination of the dying man’s clothes showed that he had been 
robbed after the shooting, even to his shield. MacNamara was arrested 

at six o’clock this morning at No. West Fifty-fourth Street. He 

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acknowledged having entered the drug store, and having thrown the rock 
at Essingham in an effort to escape, but denied any knowledge of the 
subsequent shooting. He admitted having been arrested by the officer 
several times before, but insisted that no bad blood existed between them. 
Nothing in the way of a weapon or of the articles stolen from Essing- 
ham was found on him. Several dollars worth of cocaine found in his 
pockets was later identified by the druggist as the same taken from his 
store. The pharmacist had missed nothing more.” 

To the reports covering the details of the crime, was appended, in the 
case of each paper, a crisp sermon on the evils of the cocaine habit, preg- 
nant with the truth, and convincing by reason of the terrible example 
utilized as a text. 

“But they don’t,” muttered Anholt, as with sickened heart he laid the 
papers to one side; “they don’t go at it right. They talk ‘cocaine’ and 
not one man in fifty cares a continental. Let them call it by another 
equally appropriate name — catarrh snuff — catarrh powders, and watch the 
population sit up and begin to think; see how near home the shot will 
strike. But Bob, boy,” he continued, still muttering to himself, “this isn’t 
helping you and I’m going to prove your innocence or bust. It’s going to 
be hard though, to work it from this end instead of being on the ground.” 
He pressed a button on his desk and a moment later his stenographer 
rapped upon the door. 

“Miss Dutton,” he said, after admitting her, “please take these letters 
carefully. Make no copies, and when you’ve finished tear up all the notes.” 
Scarce had he finished his dictation, when Dublediehl, spick and span as 
was his invariable wont, stepped gingerly through the door. 

“Ready?” he inquired, eyeing Anholt dubiously. 

“Bet your life!” The prompt response, so entirely cordial in tone, 
encouraged the Englishman to step to the desk and appropriate without a 
“thank you” one of the silver girdled Murias from a hospitable looking 
box. 

“Better fill your case, hadn’t you?” and Anholt, diving into a heavy 
ulster, continued to beam good naturedly upon the astonished visitor, who, 
with a short “Right O !” proceeded to fill, not his case, but the pockets 
of his vest. 


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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 

“When a man’s about to look his destiny squarely in the face,” added 
Anholt, “he ought to be cocked and primed, eh?” 

“Rather!” returned the other, buttoning up his coat. “What say to a 
drink on the way over ?” 

“Better wait until we’re through, hadn’t we? We’ll probably need it 
then a suggestion to which Dublediehl, with his ever ready “Humph !” 
signified assent. 

Let it be explained that these two men were starting on what the ordi- 
dinary man would probably designate as a “devilish funny stunt.” To 
visit, in fact, the abode of Astrolo — clairvoyant, hypnotist, and self accred- 
ited ambassador of mysticism’s God. In the simpler language of the day, 
they proposed to have their fortunes told. Far be it from us to pass lightly 
on their intended act. For was not this Dublediehl a votary at the astro- 
logic shrine ? Had he not for long years past, consulted these omniscient 
seers in every quarter of the globe? Was he not therefore so rich in 
futures that regardless of the vane’s maneuvers it would always point him 
on to victory and fame? True, his progress had been honeycombed with 
holes, and his paths seemed strangely tempted to run in circular instead of 
straight, unbroken lines ; but that was a matter up to Providence, and not 
for him to correct or mourn about. Still, now that Anholt had mentioned 
it, he really would like to know just when the atmosphere would clear — 
about what time the cornucopia would yield its promised fruit. And if, 
since Astrolo was the king pin of them all, and Anholt’s friend to boot, 
he could secure a reduction of the customary price, all the dictates of self 
interest, thrift and prudence appeared to justify a consultation with this 
inspired adviser of the shaded room. Furthermore, he intended to learn 
a little on the side, both of Anholt and of the company’s prospects for 
going up the spout. In short, he proposed to get his money’s worth — 
and more, if possible. As for Anholt — well, suppose just now we let that 
question rest. Had he not treated the Englishman gracefully? Had he 
not arranged this interview and thereby saved his companion no less than 
fifty cents? Had he not left his work to personally introduce him to this 
chieftain of his tribe? And did he not propose himself to look behind the 
veil ? What more in reason could one want to know ? 

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Now this Astrolo was an up-to-date and a very busy man. He occupied 
a mansion, not a flat. You could see him by appointment only, and that meant 
an interview with the ebony hued attendant at the door. He was a modern 
of the moderns, despite his calling or his name. His house was a marvel 
of twentieth century art; the furnishings as distant from the Orient as 
was the house itself. A master of his art, he lived in regal style, selecting 
his clientele with the same cautious discrimination that marked their 
choice in coming to his door. In appearance he was the ideal business 
man; fairly tall, well proportioned, carefully groomed, courteous, intelli- 
gent, and never out of sorts. His moustache and hair were gray; his 
face, when in repose was like unto thousands one meets at every turn; 
in action it breathed a power holding one helpless as a child. The eyes 
were magnets — irresistible, unevadable, and merciless in seeking for the 
truth. At such times his personality assumed a superhuman cast. Few 
who saw him thus would afterward call him either charlatan or cheat. Such 
was the man from whom Dublediehl expected much ; whom he had hag- 
gled with on terms ; and who, wonderful enough, had acceded to his 
demand for a discount off for cash. Little wonder that the Englishman, 
who with Anholt had now been graciously received, should feel some 
slight misgivings as to getting entirely what he sought. 

From behind an elaborate flat topped desk, Astrolo glanced first at 
Anholt, then turned his curious gaze on Dublediehl’s expectant face. 
There was nothing mysterious about the room ; nothing consistent with 
one’s preconceived ideas of the setting in which this star of mystics would 
be found. It might, so far as eye could see, be the office of some success- 
ful, studious medical practitioner. As for oppressive draperies and sub- 
dued light, they were less in evidence than in the bed room of one’s home. 

“Gentlemen,” — the voice was low but incisive, — “I can divide one hour 
between you. I should prefer to deal with each of you alone. Will that 
be satisfactory?” 

“Humph !” Dublediehl answered the inquiring words and look. 
“Rather ! T don’t see that my affairs concern anybody else,” — a reply to 
which Astrolo smiled approvingly. 

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“That being settled I hold myself at your disposal, gentlemen. Who, 
may I ask, will consult me first?” 

“With Mr. Dublediehrs consent,” said Anholt, “I think I’d better face 
the music now. I’m pretty busy, you understand.” 

“Quite right!” assented his companion, observing neither a hidden 
meaning to the words, nor the significant movement of the other’s eyes. 
“I’ll just take a look around,” he added, with which remark he arose and 
began a careful appraisement of the paintings and novelties of art scat- 
tered about the place. Astrolo, motioning Anholt to follow, stepped 
quietly into a small, adjoining room, furnished simply with a small table 
and two chairs. The bare, dark tinted walls were uninviting to the eye. 
Nothing, save a swaying crystal ball, held by a cord well nigh invisible, 
gave resting place for gaze or thoughts. The door was closed. Duble- 
diehl, having completed his valuation of the room’s equipment, resorted to 
a cigar, meanwhile indulging in wild conjectures as to the income such a 
genius must derive. Fifteen minutes passed; then Anholt, with gloom 
enshrouded face re-entered, mumbled a few unintelligible words, which 
might perhaps by effort, have been construed as wishing the other better 
luck, and with a faint “So long !” hurried from the house. If, as he passed 
along the street, his melancholy air was succeeded by a quite contented 
look, was not the change probably due to some peculiar quality of the 
Chicago atmosphere, rather than because of anything occurring since his 
exit from Astrolo’s home? And if, during the ensuing afternoon, an 
impressive looking envelope, accompanied by a small cylindrical package 
carefully wrapped and sealed, was delivered to him in person by a dark 
faced messenger, who, by adding this and that together, could find in the 
occurrence an explanation for the smile and sigh betokening relief? 

As for Dublediehl, unless he voluntarily corrects us, shall we not assume 
that he was satisfied with what the stars revealed ? 


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CHAPTER X. 

Now, in the course of Anholt’s multifarious duties, worries, and chari- 
table acts, it came to pass that David Eastman, on vindication bent, 
induced Mrs. Nancy Mickle, victim of that still mysterious theft, to call 
upon his friend ; the result being, curiously enough, that Mr. S. Landseer 
Dublediehl, who chanced unexpectedly about, became straightway the 
provider of her material wants and the guarantor of certain hospital 
expenses yet to come. It resulted likewise in a lurid demonstration of the 
illogicalness of woman’s love and the perversity of man, with Anholt’s 
office as a stage on which forgiveness cowered before indifference and 
denials battled truth. And incidentally, let us state, it resulted in Anholt’s 
seeing some twenty dollars plus some thirty more which he had long since 
given up for lost. For was not this Dublediehl a sensitive and a gallant 
cuss; the last to see a woman want or a friend left in the lurch? And 
was not his disregard for money further emphasized that day, when his 
cablegrams to Scotland crowded other business off the deck, and the Gulf 
Stream’s temperature jumped suddenly because of sizzling wires? No 
one assuredly will deny the hearty satisfaction which he claimed to feel 
when Anholt, casually inquiring the sailings of the next Glasgow boats, 
expressed an inclination to smell salt air again. Of course the days were 
damp and the weather enervating although in winter months, and Duble- 
diehl, having performed his duties like a man, feeling physically indis- 
posed, deserved a short vacation before his much respected friend should 
sail. All of which may or may not explain a certain stillness in the atmos- 
phere which some wise man contends presages storms. But let not our 
belief in the infallibility of this contention delude us with false hopes. A 
storm just now, with a ripening harvest in the field, was the last thing 
Anholt could afford to have. Not because of the irreparable financial 
injury to himself involved, but because of the inevitable loss the men he 
served would experience, both in prestige and in means. Now that the 
desperate Dublediehl stood revealed in his iniquity it would be useless to 
attempt a stoppage of the tempest unless the Managing Director moved 

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full tilt ; a fact which Anholt recognized and to which he bowed his head. 
He alone could void his contract. The other Directors of the company 
could not. They had asked no questions of him direct, concerning his 
sad and checkered past. He had misrepresented nothing, unless indeed 
such act lay in his silence. He had served them loyally and well, but his 
greatest service, voluntary on his part, was now about to come. 

“The whole truth, dearest,” he had said to Dorothy in speaking of 
Dublediehl and the contemplated trip, “is this: The man is a despicable 
character ; a menace greater to the company than to myself ; but if he goes, 
I’ve got to go, and that, sweetheart, is exactly what I propose to do. I 
haven’t now, and I never at any time have had a right to hold this job. I’m 
not entitled to a position anywhere with other people’s money in my hands. 
It’s a truth that all the sophistry in the world can’t get around. Because of 
villainy in some other man I can’t expect to save my employers if the truth 
comes out. I’ve made this company a success. I can step out now with 
honor and with the confidence of the men I serve. I don’t propose to tell 
them everything, but I’ll put my resignation in a way that will save myself 
and them. And you, and I, and the little one, dearest, will go off somewhere 
and buy a piece of land with what little we have now, and be responsible to 
nobody but ourselves. It’s the only way — it’s the only chance in all the 
world for us to live half way in peace. As to Dublediehl, I’ll keep the 
worst facts to myself. I feel — I don’t know why, that some day they will 
prove a shield. But I do intend that our Directors shall know enough 
to warrant his discharge ; enough to force his cousin and himself, in self 
protection, to keep silence about what they know of me. Do you know, 
sweetheart,” he continued, “that when you came back East to me, I thought 
I knew what path to take ? In the crash that followed I saw where I was 
wrong. I still had temporized, unwittingly ’tis true, with the tendency to 
err. All my thoughts were turned toward the end ; too seldom did I pay 
attention to the means. My promises were too often built on hopes, and 
when they were blasted everything fell through. And then, dear, you remem- 
ber I made a pledge. I would follow the path that Stanley Hope mapped 
out, unwaveringly, persistently, so long as I had power to think or do. 
I kept that promise, as I believed, faithfully to this day. But still, dearest, 

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I find I was at fault. Our shareholders believed that I had never com- 
mitted wrong. Because of this they trusted me. Because of this, as much 
as by any reason of the profits earned, they hold their shares and endeavor 
to buy more. And yet a single rumor touching on my shame would for a 
time at least smash the stock to smithereens, and make these men the 
laughing stock of friends. If this should happen I’d be as big a thief as any 
man behind the bars. And that’s the one thing I’m going to make an 
effort to prevent. I’ll lose my profits, true, but what is that, sweetheart, 
to their respect and — yours?” 

“It does seem hard though,” Dorothy had remarked, taking his hand, 
“that you should have to suffer and lose so much because of such a man.” 

“He’s not to blame, dearie. It’s my own, not his sins I must pay for 
now. Perhaps I owe him thanks, because it’s through his knavery that 
I’ve come to a realization of my own mistake. Anyhow, love,” he added, 
with a tighter pressure on her hand, “to find one’s self — that, after all, is 
the greatest victory in life.” Truly with this man a long and patient hunt, 
with brushes high and little sunshine through the leaves o’erhead. 

Sitting thus, he thought of Marie, whose one sin lay in the dim and 
distant past; and of Bob, with his crime of yesterday. There was the 
vision of his mother, and wife, and babe — and of Marie’s babe; all, 
whether with innocence or guilt, bearing the burden of a wrong. 

What a sermon ! What a text ! What a pleading in defense of right ! 
What an argument against deceit! What a lesson of today, persuading 
men when learned, to paths of virtue, caution and peace insuring truth; 
when ignored, condemning them to shame and unconquerable remorse ! 

Time and again his thoughts reverted back to Bob, the man he had tried 
so desperately to save. Notwithstanding all evidence to the contrary he 
believed him innocent of the greater charge. He had written to him — 
told him so, but from the poor fellow direct no reply had come. He had 
employed counsel, who frankly stated that his fee was so much money 
thrown away. He had urged Cunningham and Powers to enlist the 
League in the accused man’s behalf and learned that Withers and his 
faction refused to countenance its aid. Hope, Storey and Bishop, the 
men on whom he could rely until the end, could not be reached. His only 

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chance lay through the use of gold intelligently placed, and now his own 
position robbed the unfortunate one of that sole remaining hope. He 
could have arranged it — perhaps afforded it, by endeavoring to hold his 
position until his company’s fiscal year had closed; but that involved the 
risk of his own dishonor, and the possible ruination of the men who trusted 
him. It was Bob’s life against the welfare of himself, his company and 
the ones he loved — Bob’s death the awful thing encouraged by his hope 
for peace ; if peace indeed could flourish in such doubtful kind of soil. 

Such was the current of his thoughts ; such the problem which this man, 
ever inclined to subordinate the practical to the idealistic view, was called 
upon to solve. With our understanding of his character shall we not, 
because of this, dignify his partial desertion of this friend as one of the 
bravest actions of his life? 


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CHAPTER XI. 

The Honorable Albert Finley Bell gathered the various letters, cable- 
grams and notes scattered about the table, into a single bundle, around 
which he snapped a rubber band. 

“So you see, Mr. Anholt,” he remarked, “it isn’t news to us” — referring 
thereby both to the Managing Director’s disclosure of certain questionable 
acts committed by Dublediehl, and the villifying tactics adopted by the 
latter in attempting to further his own ends at his former benefactor’s 
cost. “I must say,” he added, “on behalf of the Board, that we consider 
our Secretary’s actions perfectly outrageous — abominable. Why, in this 
country we should call that lathe transaction a crime. I can’t understand 
the man at all.” 

Anholt, wondering what the Chairman’s opinion would be of Duble- 
diehl’s more serious offenses, smiled and returned a sheet of memoranda 
to his pocket. 

“You have the facts, gentlemen.” 

“Oh ! we must discharge him and get a new Secretary at once.” The 
Chairman’s words met with the nodded approval of his associates. “We 
can’t afford to keep such a scalawag in our employ,” he continued; “it’s 
disgraceful.” 

“I think,” observed Mr. Crowley, who never spoke except after mature 
deliberation, “Mr. Anholt used very good judgment in bringing these 
matters direct to us; much better than if he had acted himself.” 

“Unquestionably!” agreed the Chairman. “I’m sure he understands 
the Board approves his course.” 

“We wish Mr. Anholt to feel” — again Mr. Crowley spoke; “that as a 
Board we propose to stand behind him, especially” — the ever present germ 
must manifest itself — “since he has created such a tremendous trade for 
us.” 

“You forget, gentlemen, that my decision to resign is irrevocable.” 

The quiet, convincing words recalled them to a consideration of their 
Managing Director’s expressed determination to leave their service. After 

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a glance at his fellow Directors the Honorable Albert Finley Bell answered 
Anholt with a voice and manner in which a touch of annoyance was clearly 
visible. 

“But we can’t understand your insisting on what I must call a rash and 
most unnecessary act. Why, it would injure our company frightfully — .” 

“Especially,” supplemented the athletic appearing Mr. Jones, “if you 
were to desert us right after we’ve bounced Dublediehl for dishonesty. 
With our Secretary discharged and our Managing Director resigned, our 
shares would drop to a pretty figure, wouldn’t they? A jolly nice mess 
we’d be in !” after saying which he reached for the Scotch and soda — 
necessary adjunct to all well regulated meetings of the kind. 

“I am sure,” said Mr. Crowley, looking up from the paper on which he 
had been doing a bit of rapid mathematical work, “that since Mr. Anholt 
understands we endorse his actions he will reconsider taking the proposed 
step. I’ve figured his profits, at the rate orders are coming in, will amount 
to nearly six thousand pounds under his contract. You see,” he con- 
tinued, turning to Anholt, “you couldn’t afford to lose that.” 

The latter, about to reply, was stopped by the Chairman’s further ex- 
pression of astonishment at his contemplated course. “It’s most incom- 
prehensible,” he exclaimed, “that you should think of such a suicidal 
thing! Why, Fred. Dublediehl and MacDougal would harry the life out 
of us.” 

“Not with the whip I’ve given you,” replied Anholt. “Besides, you’ve 
got the business, and that’s what regulates the price of your shares — or 
it ought to, anyhow. Gentlemen,” — after a minute’s pause ; “I appreciate 
your confidence. I recognize the motives influencing you in refusing to 
accept my resignation ; but believe me, your interest lies in the elimination 
of both Landseer Dublediehl and myself from all connection with your 
company. Fred. Dublediehl has hammered it since the day we began 
doing business, and that bunch of stuff there,” — pointing to the bundle in 
the Chairman’s hands, — “explains why. That — and what I’ve told you. 
And he isn’t going to stop until I’m out ; depend on that.” 

“But Mr. Anholt,” Mr. Crowley took occasion to say ; “as long as we 
are the only losers and are satisfied — .” 

[ 235 ] 


A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“I know,” said Anholt; “but if you’re satisfied to lose and to see the 
shareholders lose, I’m not. You can get a thousand abler men for the 
place, and not have the company discredited at every turn. The fact that 
I’m surrendering my profits ought to show that I’m acting for what I 
believe is your good, and not my own. I understand the conditions in 
America better than you do. I understand the motives behind these 
attacks better than you do, and I understand the circumstances which 
absolutely prohibit your company from achieving a creditable and perma- 
nent success while I manage its business in the States. I’m either insane 
or I know what I’m talking about. However you decide that point the 
result must be the same — the appointment of another man to fill my place.” 

When Anholt stopped speaking, the Chairman glanced interrogatively 
at the faces of the other Directors. Satisfied that he had correctly inter- 
preted their nods,, he leaned over and replaced the accusatory documents 
in the desk drawer with an air intended to convey the idea that what he 
was about to say should be construed as final. 

“Unless you can submit some stronger argument in support of your 
contemplated resignation, Mr. Anholt, we must decline to accept it. As I 
understand it, you are permitting a row between yourself and Duble- 
diehls, about which our company has nothing to do, to influence you in 
adopting a course decidedly incompatible with our best interests. A very 
foolish, and I really must say, from you, a most unlooked for action. As 
to these scurrilous reports about your debts and personal extravagances, 
they only confirm the information we already possessed about their au- 
thors. It is most aggravating to you, I am sure, but we cannot consider 
it as in any way our business, and we must insist for that reason, upon your 
retaining your position and complying with the letter of your contract.” 

With his concluding remark the Honorable Albert Finley Bell prepared 
to take up the next matter in the order of business. It was entirely ob- 
vious to Anholt, since no formal vote on the subject of his resignation had 
been taken, that a disinclination existed among his fellow Directors to 
having the matter placed upon the minutes ; a sufficient reason for his 
ceasing, for the time being, to make a more extended argument on his 
own behalf. 


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At the first meeting of the Board, following the company’s flotation, a 
resolution had been passed authorizing Mr. Crowley to proceed to America 
at his earliest convenience, examine the proposed plant, and make such 
investigation of conditions generally as would enable him to intelligently 
advise his associate Directors on matters necessitating such information 
before they could be finally disposed of. By reason first of his sudden 
and prolonged illness, and secondly owing to the unexpected progress 
Anholt had made in securing profitable business, the journey had been 
time and again postponed, until by common consent the resolution, a 
short time prior to the present meeting, had been repealed. Inasmuch as 
the company’s books were regularly inspected and the financial statements 
checked up by the Chicago branch of an English firm of auditors, the 
Board was reasonably safe in assuming that phase of the business to be 
properly cared for. For that reason, until the present time, their entire 
knowledge of the situation had been derived from the letters of their 
Managing Director and Dublediehl, together with the brief reports for- 
warded them by the auditing concern. Having this in mind, and in view 
of his intended severance of relations with the Gear interests, Anholt 
determined to urge the adoption of a new resolution insuring a thorough 
examination into the company’s present condition and prospects by either 
Mr. Crowley or such other Director as the Board might nominate. In 
this decision lay a two-fold purpose. First, it would provide him with a 
certificate of character in so far as his management of the business was 
concerned ; a document, as it were, guaranteeing him exemption from 
responsibility for a successor’s possible mistakes — mistakes, the result of 
which are too frequently charged to the delinquencies of a predecessor in 
the efforts to clear a present incumbent’s skirts. Secondly, it meant the 
presence in Chicago, of a company official empowered to act promptly, 
decisively, and in accordance with the dictates of his judgment, whenever 
and wherever such action might be required; an arrangement indispen- 
sable to the consummation of the plan Anholt had already formulated, and 
which, should he be unsuccessful in forcing an acceptance of his resigna- 
tion, he proposed to put in early execution. 

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As for ripping the curtain from his own disfigured past, and in its 
nakedness exposing the still running, quivering wound — that would but 
add to the torture without a compensation attainable, as he believed, 
through far less painful means. Nor was he, with the Directors’ expres- 
sions of undiminished confidence still ringing in his ears, courageous — 
or foolish enough, to pose now as a Valjean, whose last act of atonement 
would be found in his voluntary surrender of the respect which these men 
had extended him, together with his well earned profits and whatever 
future his association with his fellow Directors might imply. He would 
sacrifice the last two willingly, but the first, he hoped through diplomacy 
to retain. And if, between diplomacy and subterfuge a distinction lies, 
which somehow leaves their meaning one, and if the respect of honest men 
is doubly strengthened by a frank confession of our sins, who, even so, 
would be quite bold enough to cast the first stone at this man, now stand- 
ing at the abyss of his guilt and dizzied by the visions playing in its depths ? 

His purpose, deftly masked as a mere suggestion and broached at the 
time he deemed most opportune, met with the unqualified approval of the 
Board. Whether because it presented the desired opportunity of concil- 
iating Anholt by means of a concession easily made, or because the Direc- 
tors deemed such action necessary in fortifying themselves against the 
inevitable Dublediehl assault, was an entirely negligible consideration so 
far as their Managing Director was concerned. The result of their acqui- 
escence would be the same. It was arranged that Mr. Crowley, leaving 
within the coming week, should prepare himself to remain, if necessary, 
for an extended period in the States. Anholt would sail immediately on 
the final disposition of such matters as required his personal cooperation 
with the Board. This being settled, the two succeeding days were devoted 
to elaborating the company’s policy along such lines as in the present 
light of things seemed advisable, and to the acquisition by them all of a 
better understanding of the progress thus far made. 

Now Anholt, stopping at the Caledonian Hotel, had certain troubles 
quite apart from those directly attributable to his enforced silence on his 
resignation scheme. There were cablegrams that told of Dublediehl’s 
high handed ways; of an adverse jury verdict in the case of Bob; of a 

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prospective order of arrest to await him on return and to be sworn out 
in New York City; by whom and on what charge, his informant, who, 
the cable stated, was merely acting on a hint the Englishman had dropped, 
could not tell. Then there were callers, who in persistence made up most 
fully for what they in numbers may have lacked. Need time be wasted 
in telling who they were? And since we’ve either got to feed — or shoot 
the wolf, to quiet his incessant howling at the door, perhaps allowance 
should be made for Anholt’s nod directed to the page, who forthwith 
bowed one of the obstreperous visitors to his room. 

“Ah, Mr. Anholt ! I’m charmed, really — most charmed, I assure you !” 
and the bushy whiskers of Mr. Donald MacDougal performed an ellipti- 
cal movement which threatened to include a sweeping of the floor. 

“And I,” said Anholt, “am so overwhelmed with curiosity that I can’t 
arise — in fact, can’t raise my hand;” which latter fact his caller already 
had observed. “You understand, of course,” he added, studying the 
little fellow with a cold, uncompromising air, “that I’m busy. So cut out 
these social preliminaries and get straight down to turkey — or crow, 
whichever way you feel. You might sit down though,” and with a 
scarcely perceptible gesture the speaker indicated a seat. 

“Oh ! I say now, Mr. Anholt, you’re ungenerous.” The voice wavered 
between a pipe and whine. “Your success has turned you — assuredly 
turned you, I am afraid, against your friends. It’s deucedly — .” 

“What do you want?” The sharp, sudden words, halted the bobbing 
whiskers at an angle imperilling their wearer’s neck, while the body, 
startled for an instant into rigidity, appeared dangerously near tumbling 
from the chair. With the subsidence of the shock, articulation came to 
life. 

“Why I — Mr. Anholt, I simply — ” 

“What — do — you — want?” Something decidedly ominous in the long 
drawn words and accompanying gesture started the Scotchman’s mind to 
working at a surprisingly accelerated gait. 

“Mr. Anholt, will you permit me to ex — .” 

By this time the American was on his feet. “What in Hell I let you 
in for,” he exclaimed passionately, starting for the door, “I don’t know \ 

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Now get!” For the first time in months an oath had crossed his lips. 
With one hand on the knob and the other pointing to the hall, he seemed 
to MacDougal’s excited mind the incarnation of all the wild and maniacal 
traits ascribed to the barbarous Americans by the religion on which 
British Provincials were fed. But, as intimated pages back, this Scot was 
anything but a fool, and the members of his clan the last to take backwater 
at a threat. Still, he was discreet, and that just now meant saying some- 
thing definite and with very slight ado. Hence the hasty, jerky spouting 
of a few illuminating words. 

“How much did Freddie pay you on this deal ?” 

Anholt closed the door with a bang. “So ho!” he thought; “me- 
thinks I smell a thickening of the plot.” Crossing the room he faced 
his alarmed and former associate. 

“Three thousand pounds.” 

Once more the whiskers stood at prompt attention. “Oh, really ! 
Is that — you must pardon me — was that really all?” 

“Not a sixpence more, MacDougal. Why? Hurt?” 

Now in the face of a great surprise the nervous little gentleman 
could never quite compose himself without first flopping about con- 
siderably on his seat; an exercise which at this point resulted in his 
unceremonious precipitation to the floor, thereby coupling physical soreness 
to mental injury, and providing a situation responsible for the disclosure 
of another piece of curious business in Frederick Dublediehl’s career. 

“I meant,” exclaimed Anholt, stifling a laugh, “financially; though 
now the query would seem to work two ways.” 

There was no particular observable reason why MacDougal should, 
having regained his feet, stand blinking fiercely at the fire, or continue 
pulling at the furnishings on his face. It might perhaps, be his method 
of determining what to say; an interpretation by Anholt of his actions, 
which proved to be correct. 

“Oh!” — now the little man was shouting — “I shall publish him! 
You must, Mr. Anholt — you must, really, see my solicitor with me at 
once! Freddie’s a rouge! Fifteen hundred pounds — I’m defrauded of 

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A M AN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 

that, Mr. Anholt! Think of it — fifteen hundred pounds! You must — 
I must insist you go .” 

‘Til go nowhere, MacDougal, and I’ll see no solicitor — understand? 
This is the damndest mixed up, cut-throat game I ever saw or heard 
tell of. You and Fred and Landseer Dublediehl, and your whole 
rotten bunch of knaves are only getting what you bought — and for that 
matter, so am I, because I helped the dirty deal along. Bah ! you 
cowards make me sick.” Then Anholt hawked and spit as if he were 
physically instead of mentally ill. 

MacDougal was moving to and fro before the grate, with a step 
fanciful enough to indicate the lively and effervescent condition of 
his brain. 

“I protest, really,” he finally managed to exclaim, “against such 
language — and I protest most vigorously! Why, Freddie has reports 
about you .” 

“MacDougal, it’s no particular pleasure to me to be obliged to 
interrupt you every time you open your mouth, but I’ve had enough 
of this. Will you go now, or have I got to throw you out?” 

With all due respect to the valor of the McDougal clan, let it be said 
that no member had yet been known to ease the headsman’s task by 
supinely resting on the block, while his executioner jollied along a 
crowd. Semper paratus, the tribal motto, they held referred as fully to 
escape as it ever did to death. And this particular MacDougal — well, 
he was a MacDougal. 

“Ye gods and little fishes!” muttered Anholt as he walked to the 
window and gazed at the gloomy castle ; “Old Sherman certainly was 
right, only he should have called it company promotion instead of 
war.” Lowering his eyes they caught and followed the figure of his 
erstwhile visitor scurrying across Princess street, his bristling whisk- 
ers breathing defiance to humanity in general, and eternal damnation 
to the gear crowd in particular. “If that jack-in-a-box,” soliloquized 
the American, “should meet Fred Dublediehl now, I’d never see the 
morning train. What in thunder does Dublediehl want anyhow? 
You’d think he’d try to hide his tail. Well, he can’t see me — that’s flat! 

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Gad ! I wish I could have forced my resignation on the Board. I hate 
to leave them cold.” For a full half hour he pondered thus; until in 
fact, the distant hill had faded into night. “Oh, well!” — the words 
had succeeded to a weary sigh ; “in the end it’s my sacrifice, not theirs, 
and — I’m satisfied it’s the only thing to do — the only honorable thing.” 

He walked to the grate and poked the dying coals. Somehow his 
thoughts still clung tenaciously to the contemplated act. Then he 
stood with his right arm resting on the mantel, his left hand swinging 
the poker back and forth. “Samuels, our manager,” he went on, “can 
help the new man out. Suppose — suppose I did try to hang on for a time, 
and that rumor about — arresting me, should happen to prove true. Great 
Guns, what a market for the bears ! Of course they’d throw the case 
right out of court, but then — the damage would be done. Anholt, old 
man, you’ve got henceforth to cut all business out ; to let the interests 
of all other men alone. You’ve got to tear away to God’s own free, 
unbroken soil; to solitude and manual labor if you hope for peace of 
mind. Perhaps there, in time, your way will clear to better things. 
If not” — he seemed now as one who saw some strangely comforting 
dream — “if, as the years pass by, your inspirations waver in the face 
of doubt; if ambitions settle into mere content; if materialism triumphs 
over the ideal ; if the mission that you’ve cherished succumbs to sober 
facts ; and yet with it all you still possess the blessings of a home — well 
then, so let the will of God be done !” 

***** 

Ten days later — on Sunday, March the twenty-seventh, to be exact, 
the Managing Director of The Schnelhauser Gear of America, Limited, 
walked into the Chicago office of that company. One man — Duble- 
diehl, was there. Neither spoke. In fifteen minutes Anholt prepared 
to leave. About to pass the Englishman, he stopped, smiled, placed 
the bundle he was carrying carefully on a desk, and with the utmost 
precision, speed, and pleasure undisguised — knocked the fellow down. 


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CHAPTER XII. 

In a stateroom of the Overland Limited, leaving the Chicago Union 
Station at ten o’clock the following morning, Anholt busied himself 
with various bags, wraps and parcels, on the skillful disposition of 
which depended largely the travelers’ comfort. Dorothy, having 
nursed her bewildered babe into a state of temporary forgetfulness, 
placed it carefully on the cushioned seat, assured herself time and 
again that by no chance could it possibly roll off, and then — the 
inevitable question that makes all women kin the world around : 

“Are you sure, dear, you’ve got the baggage all checked right?” 

“My dear girl,” replied the husband, eyeing dubiously first the lug- 
gage rack and then the package in his hand, “the baggage smashers 
offered to stand the excess charges if I’d get out and give the next 
fellow a chance. Fact is, they looked over the counter to see if I didn’t 
wear skirts. It’s a blessed lucky thing though,” he added after a finally 
successful effort to make the bundle stick, “that we rented that house 
furnished, isn’t it?” 

Dorothy, as the train sped through what had so recently been the 
city of her hopes, made no reply. Her eyes, fastened on the fleeting 
walls of stone, told nothing of the thoughts that stirred her mind. 
Anholt, having finished his task, sat down beside her, placing his 
hand upon her softer, welcoming one. She turned toward him, with 
a smile so obviously forced as to intensify rather than ameliorate his 
own feeling of worriment. 

“Do you know, Van,” she said, using her free hand to stroke the 
back of his ; “I’m so afraid Mr. Crowley will be angry on his arrival 
at the office today? Are you entirely sure, dear, that he can manage to 
get along?” 

“Dearest, there isn’t any doubt about it. Samuels knows the details 
even better than I do myself. As a matter of fact he’d make a rattling 
good Managing Director. I’ve left him power of attorney to act for 

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me wherever it’s necessary, and between him and Mr. Crowley they 
can make out in bully shape. So far as his being angry is concerned, 
he’ll soon get over that. I left him a letter stating plainly that I’m 
going away for good, and he’s got no alternative but to put another 
man in charge. They refused my resignation before. Now they’ve got 
to accept it willy-nilly, for their own protection. George Harry, if 
they could only understand what a danger I’ve relieved them of!” 
The sigh following the concluding words was audible above the noise 
of the speeding train. 

“But, Van, dear” — the tremor of anxiety still was manifest — “do you 
think they’ll ever understand?” 

“Will they!” He released his hand and stared at her with a half 
astonished, half injured air. “Well, just you wait and see! They’ll 
not only understand, but they’ll respect me — yes, and thank me, too. 
Those Directors are men, not Dublediehls. That reminds me” — struck 
by a sudden thought he began scratching his head — “about that letter from 
Withers to Dublediehl ! I don’t believe the old man told him anything 
or I certainly would have heard about it. Why he wrote though, I 
can’t for the life of me make out. I suppose now, Dublediehl, on get- 
ting fired, will poke his nose around New York. That’s the .” 

The conductor’s entrance, on his round for tickets, brought the 
conjecturing to an abrupt close. When they were alone again, Anholt 
who had arisen, pointed toward the rack. 

“You know that package up there, you’re so curious about?” 

Dorothy nodded. 

“Well, if S. Landseer Dublediehl ever comes my way again, there’s 
his finish !” which enigmatical remark was the nearest approach to an 
explanation that his wife received for many months to come about that 
most carefully wrapped and guarded box. He resumed his seat by the 
little woman’s side and both lapsed into silence, their eyes resting on 
a passing landscape that left no impression on the brain. The sun- 
shine playing on the fields; the emerald tinge that found its birth in 
tender shoots of wheat; the budding trees; the turquoise blue, seeming 
to breathe tranquility on earth no less than in the sky; the gaping 

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furrows, freshly turned, and prophetic of a coming wealth — all were 
looked upon but never seen by either man or wife. 

Aroused in time by the waiter’s call for lunch, which call had inci- 
dentally brought the baby back from dreamland — a way which babies 
have of waking at the most inopportune of times — Dorothy gave 
expression to one of many thoughts. 

“I do wonder,” she remarked, taking the little one in her arms, “if 
Marie really would come West to us.” 

“That’s what she said, sweetheart, when I saw her in New York. ’ 
It was a relief to Anholt to have some excuse to talk. “And Davey, 
he’s bound to come — so he says, anyhow. If I could only induce 
mother to come, and then inveigle Storey and Bishop, we could 
occupy a county to ourselves. Ye gods, what a healthy looking lot 
of farmers ! and if .” 

Oh! man, man! must this thing always be? Are you to never know 
one hopeful, happy inspiration free from assassination in its birth? In 
all your life is there to be no act, no memory, no thought but what has 
ending in despair and gloom? You would have mentioned Bob, when 
recollection came in all its hideous garb and struck you dumb. For 
Bob — your protege — your friend, has ceased to be. Bob, the lad to 
whom you were the prince of men ; Bob, whose soul was won and lost 
in the giving and withdrawal of your hand ; Bob — thoughtless, lovable, 
and faltering along his strange, uncertain way ; robbed when the agony 
was most intense, of his sole support by you; Bob — unresentful, 
generous and considerate as the shadows fell; Bob — Bob, had sought 
beyond the Great Divide the peace denied him here. 

“Why, Van, dear! what in the world is the matter? You stopped — 
you look so pale.” Again her spoken words had brought the man 
relief. He could at least combat his thoughts with speech. 

“I was thinking, dearest, of Bob. To think — to think that he — that 
Bob should hang himself — should take his life!” 

“You mustn’t — you must try, dear, to forget it.” She couldn’t take 
his hand again; the baby rested in her arms. She could only utter 
soothing words. “And perhaps it was for the best. You know, dear, 

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you couldn’t have helped him now. You did try — so hard; and the 

next day they would have sentenced him to be . Oh ! Oh ! Bob — 

poor, dear, unhappy boy!” and tears fell upon the pink cheeks of a 
wondering babe, and the mind of woman claimed its inalienable right. 

The husband, stooping to the floor, brought forth two envelopes 
from a bag. One was filled with papers, time worn and written in the 
language of the French. From the other he extracted first a locket, 
through wear now but a fragile shell. When opened the miniature of 
a woman — sweet faced, intelligent and fair, reposed within the frame 
of gold. No inscription gave an inkling of her name. The man trans- 
ferred this to his pocketbook. He took the letter that accompanied it — 
the letter which, for three days past had awaited him at home. He 
kissed his wife — then the chubby infant, and leaving them sought the 
smoking compartment. He found it untenanted, and seated himself 
in its solitary chair to read. No cigar — no attention to the porter 
reminding him that luncheon had been called — nothing was noticed by 
him, either outside or within the car, except this farewell message from 
his friend: 

“Dear boss. Im askin Jimmy ORourke to send you sum papers what 
hes got of mine and wich bein in sum foren gab I dont no gist what they 
are but wich the old wommen what raised me kep. When you git this 
boss yours trooly will be a stif. I cant stand fer this no longer wich not 
havin you no more to tie to and doin no good liven and seein as how they 
fixed me anyhow Im goin to fergit it. It aint no use to con myself nor 
you with thinkin Im worth a su even if I git out of this here deel wich I 
cant no more and I never wud have writ you nohow only since Im goin 
to pas it up. I aint carin a dam what guys thinks about this here Essing- 
ham job only you. He wuz a piker anyhow and a dirty bloke but you wuz 
wite and it aint your fait Im suckin this lemmen whats bein handed out 
to me. Thats why Im writin this to you bein me only frend sos you no 
Im an innicent man. Now boss I tell you gist how it comes to hapen and 
it wuz gist this way honest to god. I wuz all in and loosin me mind fer 
the dope. Dident I try to make good when you left wich it wuz gist like 
nite. And no way I turned but what sum mut or plane clothes bull throes 
the hooks in me and grafts all I pul in on the stand. What wuz the use fer 
me to snifil to your wimmin fokes seein as how likes not you wuz havin your 
own trubbles. And me goin to skool nites wich you can see by this hand 

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writin till the perfesser he gits wize to me and gives me money back any sez 
skidew wich tryin hard to lurn I wuzent lookin fer. So noin I wuzzent 
no good only when I had the dope and not havin nobody carin nohow I 
gist nachurly fell fer a free handout fer a braser wich onct havin it kep 
me goin fer more. Gist as you sed boss noin how it wud be and me havin 
no nurve to stop I sold the joint intenden to come to you thinkin if you 
wud speel to me good and hard I cud qwit. Wich thinkin it over and 
seein as how I lade down on you and not carin to see mister Storry no 
more him not understanden me I tuk to the wuds wich is to say with old 
billy Wisel on the west side noin him as slidin to hell with coke claimin he 
had catar to. Havin the do we lodes up with the reel stuf it doin more 
good until I gos brok and havin gone the limmit I figgered on sneekin a 
pinch in the dope shop, seein as how me only chanct wuz coppen it at 
nite. Im tellen the honest gods truth boss noin its me to anser fer what 
Im sayin now to the holy savier. Sos thats how I comes to be sneekin the 
stuf in Bektels plase noin where he kep it when the fly cop moozies along 
wich when he sees me I skidews. Thinken to luk around and seein as 
how he wuz pullen his gun I throed the rock to git him intenden he wud 
stop fer a minnit. Thats everything I no about it boss. I cross my hart 
wich I hope you will beleve me bein as how Im goin to qwit the game 
tonite. I want you to no Im sorry fer not havin made good wich I aint 
wurth your worrin over but I hopes you will kinder smooth the hard 
feelins down a bit when you reed this. I dont no where Im goin boss 
wich tho it cant be wurse than this is but I wish I wuz goin where mabe 
I cud see you agin sos to no what it wuz to see one frend whats on the 
level. Im senden you a little soovner boss thinkin mabe you wudent mind 
and wich wuz always hangin around me neck. I dont no who it is but 
sum sez the wommen in it luks like me. I asks you to keep it boss mabe 
lukin at it sumtime and rememberen I wanted to be wite like you only not 
havin your hand no more I dident somehow no gist how alone. Deer 
boss Im goin soon and when mornin comes I hopes the sun will keep on 
shinin fer you whats got an angel wommen to keep you standin up wich 
a good wommen wuz what I never had. I seen her prayen fer you one 
time boss wich wud you mind askin her mabe to plug fer me gist now and 
then. I wisht gist onct I cud uv had her kiss me sos to have somethin 
pure like on me mind when the glim goes out. Boss Im shakin your 
hand what done so much fer me. Im biddin you good by. 

with respetfuly Yours. 

Bob. 


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PART THREE 


CHAPTER I. 


A country whose tawny, undulating soil, dignified as a setting for 
golden acres of sun-caressed and ripening grain, lies blistering in the 
white glow of a torrid noonday orb. A landscape of the Dakotas, where 
the first quickening of a mother earth bespeaks the foothills further west — 
the children of the Rockies — progeny of the mighty, snow-capped, ever- 
lasting hills. The smoking coach of a transcontinental train, in which 
conventionalities are defied, and coats and collars, cuffs and ties, having 
first been roundly cursed, are cast promiscuously on rack and seat and 
floor. In which each traveler’s mouth is graced by pipe, cigar or cigarette, 
and where, despite the overpowering heat, the bottle diligently makes its 
rounds. Where card games flourish and double pedro rules the roost. 
Where play is low and voices high, and where no one cares a continental 
what the other fellow thinks. That is, of course, exceptions always 
prove the rule. Therefore, we must except the one game furthest down 
the aisle, where that big fellow clings to collar and his black alpaca coat ; 
where the little one, dealing, manages — God alone knows how ! — to keep 
as cool as Cheyenne on a winter’s day, and who neither talks nor smiles, 
nor brandishes cigar; and where their two opponents — drummers, self- 
professed, find business too engrossing to particularize about their wares. 

Thus we have location, train and occupants in our mental eye ; true, a 
trifle hazy, but still enough to do. Let us, therefore, transfer events to 
past from present tense. The conductor came along, stopped and 
patiently awaited the big man’s final play. 

“High, low, jack, double pedro and out, gentlemen!” and then on look- 
ing up, “Well, conductor are we getting there?” 

“The blue-clothed official conspicuously displayed his book for cash 
receipts. “You’re getting away from there, sir. Beaver Junction was 
the last stop we made. Where do you go to now?” 

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The giant stared first at his antithesis, who promptly closed his eyes; 
then again at the extended palm, and from there to its owner’s face. 

“My friend,” he said, “Divinity doth speak through you, and thus chas- 
tiseth me for keeping vulgar company at which the closed eyes opened 
wide, and two gentlemen began a mental diagnosis of their fellow-player’s 
words. 

The quiet personage, refraining from closing his eyes again, felt called 
upon to speak. “There’s a song that fits this case,” he observed, now 
looking dreamily upon the fleeting fields ; “ T don’t know where I’m going, 
but I’m on my ’ ” 

“Gentlemen ! Gentlemen !” — the sweltering representative of a greedy 
and unsentimental road had calculated that his passengers were already 
some fourteen cents ahead. “Your tickets read to Beaver Junction. You’ll 
have to pay from there on — where is it?” 

The little fellow now was wide awake. “At the first stop that puts us 
back to that visionary place,” he returned, “or to Red Hill, either one. 
How much?” Then as an afterthought he added, turning to his com- 
panions, “Did anybody hear that brakeman call the place?” 

“Not I !” 

“Nor I !” 

“Well, gentlemen, he called it. Eighty-four cents each to Cody Grove. 
You’ll get a train back at — or hold on! there’s a place called Nowhere 
up the road here, where you can catch a freight straight to your place. 
Know it? No? It’s where the company started to build a town. That’s 
why it’s on the schedule. Guess I could drop you there if you say so. 
That’ll be twenty-seven cents apiece.” 

“I think,” remarked he of the unruffled mien, “I’ll try about twenty- 
seven cents worth. Does Brother Storey speak?” 

“My friend, since we’ve passed nothing, Nowhere appeals to me. And 
if the conductor,” he continued, counting out the change, “happens to 
have a fire alarm on board, he might start it going as the suburbs come 
in sight.” 

Now, since train conductors never smile on sultry days, this official’s 
suggestion that he might in addition wire ahead for a motor car and 

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drinks, impressed Storey as deserving of his last cigar, which he handed 
out forthwith. 

The black-mustached individual, as the conductor went his way, looked 
at his younger, smooth-faced friend sitting at the minister’s right. 

“Say, Harry, that’s a new one on me, or has this Nowhere got some 
other name? Where’s your time-table?” 

“What’s the use to look? It’s Nowhere on the map, and it’s Nowhere 
on the time-card. That’s where the road intended to put up a model depot 
and town. That’s why they called it Nowhere. I never heard of any 
other place’t they ever did. Maybe,” he added, in a tone of inquiry, 
“these gentlemen would like another round.” 

There was no answer for a time. Then it came in a voice surprisingly 
low but clear. Bishop — you had already guessed it — had carefully 
counted out a roll of bills. He shoved them toward the young man, his 
gaze meanwhile directed to a spot far out upon the plain. 

“No more, Coughlan !” The fellow turned upon him like a flash. 
“But take this, Harry — go home. It’s all right — it’s fixed. You’ve only 


“God Almighty!” The gambler’s mask had disappeared, leaving a 
staring, ashen face, quivering with a sense of fear. “You’re — you’re 
Sunrise — you’re Bishop! God! And here — out here!” The trembling 
hand had clutched the other’s sleeve. Bishop must have heard, have 
noticed him — he was neither deaf nor blind. He must have observed 
numerous wondering faces turned questioningly his way. He must have 
caught the alarmed, defiant gleam playing beneath the bristling, bushy 
eyebrows of the young man’s friend. Singular, indeed, that with all of 
this his face should still remain so calm; that his glance should turn again 
and hover on that receding knoll, as if some memory lingered there ; that 
his lips, as if communing with himself, should part and utter words which 
but a single person other than himself could hear — words so few and soft, 
yet pregnant with inestimable power for good. 

“It’s all there, Harry — all you lost that night, with interest. Go back — 
she’s there — your mother — waiting. Tell her my last game has been 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 

played.” The fingers closing on the bills again, had forced them in the 
astonished fellow’s hand. 

“Oh, Mr. Bishop ! I .” 

“No thanks — nothing, Harry, only — go home!” 

A prolonged whistle in lieu of fire alarm. They were in the suburbs. 
The brakeman raised a warning hand. Some broken words — “I’ll go — 
straight back — tonight.” “Good, that’s right !” — a hearty handclasp, and 
then our Metropolitan friends, with ceremony astonishingly scant, were 
dumped in record time upon the station platform of that funny, sunny, 
western town called Nowhere. 

Along the glistening rails, stretching in one straight, interminable line 
toward the western shores, the departing train, as if humiliated by the 
stop, drew itself onward with an increasing, disheartening speed — dis- 
heartening, that is, to the strangers in this prairie place, who now stood 
mute and followed it with hungry eyes ; until, in fact, the spot had 
blended into nothingness. Then slowly, cautiously, eyes met eyes ; 
the big man turned his huge suit case on end, squatted on it with a 
due amount of care, and with hat removed, applied himself to a vigor- 
ous mopping of the face. Bishop, being cool enough, devoted his atten- 
tion to scrutinizing the town, incidentally venturing the opinion that 
it’s name was “quite all right,” and after calling attention to the 
acreage in the depot yard, suggested stepping over to the nearest hotel 
for lunch. 

Storey, arising, turned to the four points of the compass and then 
sat down again, remarking that Bismark hadn’t impressed him favor- 
ably, but that since Billings was only some two hundred miles ahead, 
his friend might do as he pleased. “You can run over, anyhow, he 
said, “while I study the architecture hereabouts. Personally, I never 
care to eat whilst I can enjoy the sights of Nowhere.” 

“Well,” observed Bishop; “the ‘Lord tempers the wind,’ I’ve heard 
you say. I think” — flecking a caterpillar from his sleeve — “I’ll reserve 
car ‘A’ when the vestibuled freight pulls in to which observation the 
minister replied, that “feeling the necessity for a whole car” to himself, 
he thought he’d charter “B.” His companion side-stepped a particularly 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


vicious and persistent bug before replying that “such unconscious wit 
might be attributable to the weather,” but that he’d try to make the best 
of it. He recollected having read somewhere “that hogs were invari- 
ably carried in the rear of first-class merchandise,” an unfeeling 
reflection lost on its intended victim, who was suddenly galvanized 
into action by reason of sundry inquiring insects prospecting down 
his back, and whose extraordinary agility in covering the adjacent 
ground lent no small measure of apparent truth to Bishop’s philo- 
sophical reflection about the other’s mental state. 

We have said that Nowhere was a funny place. Its human popula- 
tion was a floating one, just now composed of two. Its depot — a plat- 
form, twenty feet by ten, time and weather worn, stood less than 
eighteen inches from the ground. Its architecture was confined — aside 
from station — to the rounded, conical abodes of industrious ants, with 
here and there a subway in which some burrowing creature made its 
home. Its streets had never passed beyond the blue-print stage, while 
platform, ant-hills, treacherous holes and all, were hidden from the 
casual eye by a growth of inflammable, thick, and stubborn prairie 
grass. In the summer there was no place quite so hot — in winter quite 
so cold. The dismantled platform marked the intersection of the 
Great Northern Railway, running due east and west, by the Belle 
Fourche and Minot Road — a haphazard, half-graded affair, starting 
four miles north of Red Hill, and extending in an air line to Fork 
River, twenty miles to the south ; the intention of the promoters hav- 
ing been to eventually connect with the two places from which it 
derived its name. The plan of establishing a town at this intersecting 
point had been evolved by the traffic managers of the two roads, but 
following the proverbial history of similar experiments in the West, 
it had never taken a more tangible form than the preliminary survey 
and two day’s carpenter work. Whence the name, or what the allur- 
ments incorporated in the companies’ circulars bearing on this town 
to be, remains an undiscoverable secret of the past. But here again 
the prerogative of perverse man was exercised. The obvious and 
unexpected met, to the entire discomfiture of the first. Red Hill, an 

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insignificant siding on a branch road running from that place down to 
Beaver Junction, began to take on airs, make bi-monthly estimates 
of its growth in population, talk about the necessity of a mayor and 
corporate laws, and, in a quiet, unassuming way, appropriate unto 
itself such prospective settlers as the misguided railroads brought at 
half rates to Nowhere, and whom they had prematurely booked and 
labeled as pioneer residents of that altogether impossible place. But 
time and wisdom grow apace, and corporations like individuals event- 
ually concede they’ve had enough. Thus nature at last reclaimed her 
own; the parental obligations of the bugs increased; the caterpillars 
buckled down to long-neglected cocoon work; subway extensions to 
handle the expected rush began, and the ponderous engines strutted 
by with all their old time dignity. A simple explanation — all of this — 
why no untoward excitement reigned at Storey’s wild, gymnastic feats. 
Bishop, who had managed to form a tolerably comfortable seat with 
his case and bag, began reckoning the distance his worthy associate 
had traveled, as indicated by the increasing circles of downtrodden 
grass. 

“I figure, now,” he took occasion to comment, as the puffing and 
perspiring unfortunate clambered again on the shackly platform, “that 
if you’d gone straight ahead you’d be in Red Hill, or maybe Canada. 
What you lack is directness, brother.” 

“My friend,” returned the victim, whose back at frequent intervals 
seemed inclined to strange contortions ; “what I lack is a minute 
degree of common sense. I was a simple, patient and God-fearing 
man until you inveigled me from the Pullman into that smoking car.” 

“We saved the man, Storey,” urged his friend gently. 

“Whenever you or Anholt,” continued the minister, disregarding 
the mild protest, “start on an errand of mercy, you’ve got to circum- 
navigate the globe and stir up some new, unholy mess as a preliminary 
to helping the poor devil out. A modicum of judgment would have 
suggested our remaining where we were and sending for the lad. 
Behold us, though, proceeding in accordance with your intelligent 
program, through a good half mile of coaches, until we wind up next 

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to the engine in a cattle car. Then follows in proper serial form the 
other essentials of card game, a trance at Beaver Junction, and a bit 
of tragedy, all supplemented by the present grand finale. My friend, 
I shudder!’’ 

“Go ahead! if that’s the way it affects you,” came the quick retort. 
“You’ll get cooled off in time.” 

“Trunks back at the Junction; probably lost; dinner at Anholt’s 
getting cold ; no train in sight, and I don’t believe they run them on 
this line in hot weather, judging by the rails; and that unregenerate 
conductor fondling my last cigar ! My friend, your conception of the 
word you mention needs revision.” saying which he struck savagely 
at a passing bug, catching his nose instead. 

For the next hour conversation lagged. Bishop, extracting a late 
French novel from his portmanteau, began to read ; an occupation soon 
superseded by a quiet, and to Storey exasperating doze. As for him- 
self, thus delicately assigned to the thankless duties of a lookout, the minis- 
ter found ample entertainment of a certain kind in dodging insects, reduc- 
ing at intermittent stages the quantity of wearing apparel on his back, 
calculating the depth at which water might be found, and incidentally 
wondering what new phase of Anholt’s character had induced his settling 
in this God forsaken country. 

Fortunately he had asked from which direction the relief train might 
be expected to come, but his caution had ended there. He had neglected 
to inquire the time. It might be today — it might be tonight. From all 
appearances it probably wouldn’t come at all. Once a passenger train on 
the Great Northern passed, eastbound. Then a freight, going the oppo- 
site way. Nobody appeared to notice him, and this gave birth to another 
staggering thought. How would he stop the right train if it should show 
up? Whereat he interrupted Bishop’s dream, just as the latter was lifting 
a five gallon bottle of bubbling water to his lips. 

“My friend, I would converse with thee.” 

The roused man eyed him curiously; then glanced at the discarded lot 
of clothes. “I understand,” he said; “it’s very fine — only Apollo wore 

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a cape instead of shoes. Where’s the swimming hole?” he added, turning 
to look around. 

“This,” returned the one addressed, “is merely an overheated Turkish 
bath, with the entirely captivating prospect of becoming a graveyard later 
on. Uuless” — tightening the handkerchief about his neck — “the Father 
in His infinite wisdom sees fit to endow thee with something like mentality. 
See here, now ! what’s the surest way to stop a train when there’s no sta- 
tion agent around?” 

“Tear up a rail!” and the dreamy eyes closed again. “I say!” — sud- 
denly reopening them, — “whence the idea that I’m out here qualifying for 
a railroad job, or that you’re chief examiner for the educational depart- 
ment of the road? There’s no further doubt,” he added, half to himself; 
“it’s only a matter of time now until he’ll be presiding over a meeting of 
this town’s aldermen.” 

Storey, turning away in disgust, walked to the extreme end of the plat- 
form, his loosed suspenders flapping comically against his massive legs. 
Having duly counted fifty, he walked back again. 

“As I recall it,” he remarked; “the railroad men, when I was a boy, 
used a red flag by day and a red light by night. It’s quite probable that 
the rule stills holds. Have you got anything red about you?” 

“In the way of flags or lanterns?” asked Bishop. “Sorry, but this 
being my vacation I left them at home — in the round house. What’s the 
matter with standing out there yourself? You’re colored right.” 

“My friend” — the speaker paused long enough to hitch his trousers up — 
“Since I was first ordained I’ve tried, according to my lights, to follow in 
the footprints of our Lord. There are times however when the spirit 
writhes. I — plague take that grasshopper! Might I venture to hope 
that you still wear your liver pad ?” 

“You might.” 

“I might! Well, might I — you’re right, Bishop; I feel it coming on 
myself. Hurry up ! let me have that pad,” and he extended his hand with 
a grim, determined look. 

Bishop, let it be said, harbored one delusion; namely, that his lungs 
were anything but sound ; the result being that he habitually wore a chest 

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protector of red and heavy flannel, some four inches by eight in size; an 
article which Storey, by some inexplicable process of reasoning invariably 
referred to as the other’s “liver pad.” Hence, the question. It cannot 
be charged that Bishop was unnecessarily loquacious; in support of which 
statement we refer to his silent compliance with the singular demand, and 
to the entire indifference with which, having entrusted the protector to 
the keeping of his friend, he turned once more to sleep. 

It was no difficult task to rip from the decayed flooring a satisfactory 
handle for this necessity born danger signal, nor yet to find a knot hole 
wherein to set it, pending the coming of the hoped-for train; an idea of 
Storey’s which induced Bishop, on waking later and noticing the curious 
sight, to ask his friend at what time he expected the delegation of anar- 
chists to arrive. 

Having disposed of this problem to his partial satisfaction, the clerical 
gentleman concluded that his personal discomfort might be to some extent 
mitigated were he able to devise a protective covering for his head. Not 
being urgently pressed for time he betook himself to devising ways and 
means for the accomplishment of this purpose. Inspiration came to the 
rescue. A Chicago paper, fortunately saved, was impressed into service. 
The outcome was a giant cornucopia, carefully perforated for the use of 
eyes and nose, and which, when adjusted over its owner’s head unques- 
tionably aided in removing one horror from the scene, however much it 
may have been instrumental in adding another. About the time the 
ingenious gentleman had settled himself again to his unremunerative task 
as watchman in chief for the party, his companion came to life. The 
latter’s eyes, which had opened gradually, closed with remarkable sud- 
denness. Shortly a single eyelid lifted, to close again with the same un- 
seemly haste. Then both were raised, and after blinking a bit, remained 
motionless ; the result being a long, uninterrupted, wondering stare. 
Finally words : 

“And he imagined he needed a flag to stop that train! Avast there, 
stranger! What council of the Mystic Brotherhood? — or is it an A B C 
class you think you’re in? What land is this where dunces pass dire 
sentence on themselves?” 


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The grotesque figure turned around. “My friend, ’tis now well on to 
four o’clock. Hast bedding for the night? Thou dost — by the great 
Tom Walker’s ghost, Bishop, the worst is on its way !” The chubby hand 
jerked off the paper hood, revealing a ruddy face, eloquent of despair. 
The one addressed, arose, scanned the horizon, walked slowly around the 
platform as he scrutinized the grass, and then approaching his friend, 
patted him gently on the head. 

“It’s all right now, brother. See ? I’ve scared it away — it’s gone.” 

Storey waved him off. “Since you’ve passed so much time considering 
the question of our escape from this predicament, you might explain how 
this signal of ours is going to work at night. I’m reasonably sure, these 
trains, when they move at all, travel in the dark of the moon.” As he 
prepared to adjust his cap again, Bishop answered: 

“I’ve decided that. You spend the balance of the day gathering dry 
grass. Then you sit in the middle of the track all night and burn it. 
Nothing simpler !” whereupon he picked up the French volume, thus 
intimating that argument was to be tabooed. 

“Friend!” — the bugs were again at bay; — “for the elimination of the 
ego, and the utilization of the second person, singular, at opportune times, 
your aptitude is amazing. Might I suggest a slight deviation from the 
entirely unselfish order you’ve just issued?” 

“You might.” 

“I mi Oh, Father in Heaven, grant me forbearance for a short 

time more! My idea is to stop the first eastbound train, and return to 
that mirage of a Junction. What form does your objection take? You’ll 
naturally have one.” 

“Curiosity — first, to see how many times a year this train does run; 
and secondly, to see the kind of medal the company gives us. Then, 
besides, I’ll need that twenty-seven cents as a sort of restoration fund. 
Candidly, Storey, if that train doesn’t pass in an hour or two, I don’t 
believe we’ll see it until morning. These short roads usually haul their 
freight during the daytime, and we probably just missed connecting with 
the only bit of traveling equipment this particular one has got. The 
Northern Pacific couldn’t afford to drop us here unless some kind of 

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service was in operation — that’s certain. My judgment is that you sit out 
there and watch until something comes along.” 

With this partial lapse from a bantering mood which had aggravated 
even the tolerant Storey, he shifted his luggage, spread his rain coat 
carefully on the floor, extended himself thereon, and after registering a 
vow never to travel again without a tent, or at least an umbrella, returned 
to the courtship of Jacques and Eugenie. His ministerial friend, who 
manifested his feeling of relief at this display of recovered sanity, by a 
prolonged and audible sigh, resumed his post, dug an Episcopalian Hymnal 
out of his valise, and beginning with number one, undertook to initiate the 
insectile community into the melodies of that faith; an occupation that 
came to an early and abrupt halt by reason of the parched condition of 
his throat. 

As the afternoon retreated in the face of dusk, the terrors of an all 
night vigil began shaping themselves into a tangible and formidable 
group. That is, so far as Storey was concerned. Had there been some 
spirit of impartiality shown by the conditions causing all his woe ; had 
a few bugs now and then strayed toward his friend, where, by all the 
rules of logic — considering his recumbent attitude — they should have 
gone, humble resignation would have been a comparatively easy thing. 
But when every caterpillar, beetle, and hop-toad thereabouts, managed 
somehow to get in his immediate vicinity, and concentrated their fire upon 
him like so many flies around a full molasses jar, then patience dwindled 
down to nil. Bishop, at least, must straighten up and talk; whereupon 
the hymn book, now desecrated to the vengeful purposes of man, struck 
the meditating object of his spleen full abaft, thus precipitating a conver- 
sation which, if slightly caustic at the start, relieved the big man’s mind, 
and settled eventually into a really serious groove. 

To these voluntary exiles from, the Babledom of eastern life, the grad- 
ually enveloping night, with its weird surroundings, its serene and starry 
sky, brought in time curious and sober thoughts. They ran from retro- 
spect to anticipation, and tarried long about the man whom both had come 
to see ; the man they loved and honored ; the man they hoped to work with 
and perhaps obey ; the man who had sacrificed to conscience every prospect 

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of material wealth, with its resultant pleasures; who had turned again 
to nature, trusting there, when final atonement should be done, to find 
the peace so long sought for in vain. 

And so the night wore on. A welcome chilliness succeeded to the heat 
of day, until at last, despite the annoyance caused by those nocturnal 
wanderers whose interest in their Brobdingnagian visitors was yet alive, 
they passed from musings into sleep — sleep that brought to one of them 
at least, a wondrous vision verging close to Paradise. 

A vision where quiet came and lingered in the soft light of a woman’s 
eyes ; where soothing melody was brought to life in the laughter from 
her lips ; where a small, white cottage stood within a vale, with its modesty 
finding refuge under tender, clinging vines, and fragrant blossoms, and 
flowers — crimson, yellowish, and fair ; where bare toed children played — 
with golden, unattended hair and curly locks ; where tiny hands did funny 
pranks, and gleeful shouts, and strangely uttered words, and soon forgot- 
ten cries and sobs were heard; where lawns were like the emerald, and 
edged with roses, and where the scent of honeysuckles filled the air ; where 
days were always bright with sunshine, and nights were lit with stars; 
where voices were attuned to love, and arms were waiting for the sweet 
embrace ; where hands were willing, and ears could only hear the good of 
other men ; where the whispering waters of the near-by brook — where the 
willows stood and sheltered them — murmured the saddest, sweetest truth 
in all the world, before they proved it in their long and tiresome journey 
to the sea. 

Which of these two men, now wrapped in slumber on the silent plains, 
think you, will be the happier when coming dawn brings back the real ? 


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CHAPTER II. 

A sturdy individual drew taut the last reluctant rope of an Army tent, 
set invitingly in the shade of a half dozen thick leafed trees. The bared 
arms told of muscular strength, while behind the opened collar of his 
flannel shirt one now and then caught visions of a sun browned chest — 
covering for a healthy, vigorous pair of lungs. A woman stood beside 
him, toward whom, as she spoke, he turned two clear and honest eyes — 
eyes that peeped from above a dark, luxuriant beard, reminding one of 
placid lakes, seen at times through the foliage that guards their shores. 
The man was Anholt — the woman, Dorothy. Except in the richer color- 
ing of the face and a slightly increased fullness of the figure, she appeared 
as when we saw her last, some fifteen months ago. Nor was this strange ; 
for when faith and purity, forgiveness, love and hope, are rounded into 
a character such as hers, the countenance through life remains stamped 
with the Divine imprint, and neither time nor suffering, happiness nor 
pain, can modify or add one iota to the matchless beauty and perfection 
there disclosed. She was speaking now to Van, her husband. 

“It was just too funny, dear; the way Mr. Storey tells it — and to 
think, if they’d only known, they could have walked it in an hour !” 

“My dear girl! their entrance was spectacular enough as it was.” 
Anholt had stepped back and now stood viewing his completed work with 
an air of pride. “Si Hawkins swears there wasn’t a blessed scrap left in 
the brakeman’s dinner pail by the time they got here, and I’ll take oath 
they cleaned us out right afterward. I wonder,” he added, “what’s 
become of them anyhow ! They’ve got to see those chickens, sure !” 

“I do believe, dear” — a semblance of mischievousness lurked in the 
reply — “you think more of those old Leghorns than you do of your boy. 
I hope to goodness, no more will have the gaps, though !” 

“I can second that hope,” he returned, picking up his axe, preparatory 
to leaving for the house. “I mean about the gaps. I’ve stuffed a whole 

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strip of bacon and a pound of cayenne pepper down their throats 
already. About Stanley, though — of course I’ll keep on fathering him, 
provided he stops using my shoes for glue pots.” Then, as they turned 
toward the house. “I suppose Storey is tagging after Marie, eh?” 

Dorothy delayed answering until they had reached the back porch steps. 
Then placing her hand on Anholt’s arm, she said : 

“Yes dear, he’s with her — at the store. I do hope she’ll listen to him, 
now that he’s come so far !” For a minute she paused, as if endeavoring 
to decide some question presented suddenly to her mind; then looking 
inquiringly in her husband’s eyes, she added: “Tell me, Van, do you 
think she will? You know she likes him so much.” 

Anholt patted her gently on the shoulder. “If she don’t, little one, 
she’s a goose. But then — she’s a woman, too ! so who can tell? I hope” 
— looking at the sky — “that cloud brings rain, or the balance of the crops 
may as well turn in their checks. I’m off to hunt that Bishop up ! Won- 
der how he and Storey will take to sleeping in a tent !” with which con- 
cluding remark he started around the house toward the street. 

Anholt’s place, comprising some two hundred acres of fertile land, 
which he had purchased partly with cash, and partly by giving long time 
notes, stood just outside of the resident section of the little town of Red 
Hill, a place now of perhaps four hundred inhabitants. His house, a 
single storied architectural monstrosity of seven rooms, built of logs and 
rough timber, and still unpainted, was erected in that corner of his property 
nearest to the town, and directly facing a road, which as it approached 
the railroad siding, became the principal business street of the place. Red 
Hill boasted a grain elevator, a bank, a hotel, a weekly newspaper, 
two general stores, a drug store, a hardware store, a blacksmith shop, a 
livery stable and a dressmaking establishment ; the last named institution, 
by the way, doing a remarkably thriving business, when the population of 
this particular community is taken into account. As yet there was neither 
church, town hall, nor anything like a satisfactory form of local govern- 
ment; this last omission marking a condition of affairs soon to be cor- 
rected. The surrounding territory, heretofore neglected by the farming 

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element, had, through an intelligent system of irrigation, been transformed 
into a productive, promising country, toward which the tide of immi- 
gration had recently been turned. The land to the east, north, and north- 
west of the town, showed everywhere the results of this influx of honest 
tillers of the soil. To the south and southwest, most of the region was 
owned or controlled by the Great Northern Road, and still remained 
undeveloped, barren and unpopulated. Anholt’s farm lay directly west 
of Red Hill and had been the first cultivated piece of land in that neigh- 
borhood; its former owner, now dead, having been the pioneer settler in 
that section of the state. Himself a novice in all that pertained to the 
art of farming, Anholt had engaged the services of a practical, exper- 
ienced man, under whose instruction he had gradually succeeded in 
acquiring a respectable knowledge of what and what not to do ; the result 
being, that in this, his second season, he had harvested enough good wheat 
to enable him to cancel a large part of the mortgage held against his land, 
and to inspire him with reasonable hopes of eventually freeing himself of 
all other obligations. In this new phase of life his ready adaptability 
had stood him in good stead. His own personality, enabling him to form 
friendships at will, together with the lovable, unassuming disposition of 
his wife, had found them early welcome in the homes of the farmers and 
townspeople in that vicinity. Many of these new found friends learned 
in time to resort to him as a counselor in matters whose proper disposi- 
„ tion required a deeper knowledge or a greater experience than they 
possessed ; a confidence on their part, which, flattering as it was to him, 
involved a more or less departure from the policy he had so carefully 
mapped out. That a radical change in the man’s temperament had been 
wrought by his present manner of life was unquestionable. He had, in 
most things, grown conservative to the extreme. If less aggressive, he 
was more firm. If less demonstrative in his affections and beliefs, 
he was more convincing in his quiet earnestness. More softened in 
his ways, more chastened in his thoughts, more scrupulous and con- 
scientious in every act that might, even indirectly, affect the interests of 
his fellow men, he approached now more nearly to the ideal personified in 
Stanley Hope, than at any prior period of his life. 

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In one respect his mind and aspirations had remained unchanged. Or 
rather, let it be said, that conviction grew and thus emphasized the unal- 
terable purpose of a Destiny that controlled his life. This was the belief 
that he would yet be called upon to teach the world a newer faith ; that 
in his own deep sufferings he had found the seed of truth — the only truth 
that in the coming years could bring social unrest to a close. In this 
belief he worked and lived and dreamed. Because of it he found surcease 
from many bitter memories of darker times. It brought him occupation 
for the mind when manual toil was done; and thus with the flight of 
weeks and months his ideas became rounded into shape — into what he 
trusted would prove to be a practicable method insuring ultimate success. 
At times he wondered if his happiness would not be more secure if this 
conviction were less strong; if the present current of his life were to flow 
forever as it was ; if he could live, and work, and die, content with matters 
as they stood. But after all that was but a selfish creed — a coward’s 
part, and not that of a man. He must, of course, continue in his present 
way until he had purged himself of every debt. After that — well, it 
might or might not be too late. 

Through correspondence he had kept in close touch with his friends. 
He knew that Bishop was free at last from all connection with his old 
pursuit; that he proposed in starting out anew to come and join him — 
Anholt — here. He knew that Storey, for reasons more or less obvious to 
those who read, would come along. He had heard from Stanley Hope, 
whose short but friendly messages were treasured like so many gems. He 
had learned that Professor Rosseau, somewhere in Canada or the West, 
was again working as a. mining engineer, endeavoring to recoup himself 
for losses sustained in the guano deal. He was informed of the good 
work being done by the League and its members; of the finally undis- 
puted supremacy of its progressive element, and of the gradual elimina- 
tion of the Withers’ faction’s power. Now and then a letter came from 
some former protege, telling of his fight and aims, and breathing grati- 
tude. From Chicago, reports were had at intervals, advising him of the 
Schnelhauser Company’s great success. Of Dublediehl, his whereabouts 

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or present occupation he knew nothing — could learn nothing. He had, 
with difficulty, ascertained that his own unfortunate history had been dis- 
closed to the Directors of the English Board, but not, quite fortunately, until 
after the first dividend had been paid. What their impressions were of 
him now ; whether he stood absolved or in their eyes was held in disrepute, 
he had not tried to learn. He considered that his action had been justi- 
fied, and that, for the present must be enough. From Burgess, the artist, 
came every week some new thought or suggestion which he desired incor- 
porated in Anholt’s Utopian plan. He invariably asked when the experi- 
ment would begin, and respectfully suggested that he be given credit for 
his assistance, when publicity ensued. Once he gave an exhaustive 
resume of his attempts to introduce what he termed the “prenatal” style 
of art, with the result, so he affirmed, that a commission in lunacy, com- 
prised of members of his club, had prescribed a series of three big dinners 
— at his expense — as the sole hope of his restoration to a normal mental 
state. 

David Eastman was here, although at present helping out on an adjoin- 
ing farm. In his quiet way he continued to tell the story of his Christ, 
and Charity, and Love, to those who gave him opportunity. 

Marie had joined them late in the preceding fall — she and her baby 
girl, then three years of age; a robust, dimpled, sweet faced tot, whose 
golden but rebellious hair and deep blue eyes, contrasted strangely with 
the brunette beauty of the one she called her “siste.” “Siste” — Oh, what 
tragedy can hide its terrors in the shadow of a name — behind a short, 
endearing term like this ! 

Here was a mother — a queen of womankind, within whose veins the 
crimson, passionate blood of a southern ancestry still coursed; the child 
of a people who knew no obstacle — neither life nor virtue, honesty nor sin, 
in the pathway of their love or of their hate ; who struck for vengeance with 
unerring, fatal aim ; who gave no quarter— asked none, in the arena where 
men battled for the heart. Here was an empress of her sex, by all the 
rights of blood, and intellect, and worth, equipped to grace the court of 
courts — the home of some deserving, honest man — denied the right to 

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call her child her own; deprived — because of love for it — of sweet 
moment^ known alone to motherhood, when cherub lips first lisp the 
precious name that designates the rank of her whose breast they cling 
and cuddle to. Here was a brave, heroic soul, whose punishment was 
growing with the years; the features of whose little one quickened the 
memory of her sin and of him who led her on to shame. Here was a 
repentant sinner, in self-atonement sacrificing more than life, more than 
wealth, more than fame, or power, or the treasured love of man, waiv- 
ing the one priceless privilege of maternity, and disclaiming parentage of 
her child, that it might encounter life with an honorable, unsullied name. 
Here was Marie, whose faith in Dorothy and Anholt was supreme, pledg- 
ing forever this beloved innocent to their care; asking only that she 
might be near, and by her toil provide it food, and clothes, and toys, and 
help in some slight measure to insure its future happiness. And men 
believe they know of love, and sacrifice, and misery, and pain! 

Thus did Eleanor Anholt, known to the neighbors merely as an 
adopted child, start the fourth year of her life. Thus was Anholt’s family 
increased by two, for Marie, now sister to them all, was commanded by 
the lord and master of the house to take her place as fifth wheel in the 
family cart. 

There were four things Red Hill sorely needed when Anholt first 
arrived. One was a store, where the women folks — the more exclusive 
ones, we mean — could purchase hats, and suits, and other female toggery, 
made up as they desired; a place the lack of which had taken many good, 
round dollars to Beaver Junction, which otherwise would have stayed at 
home. Then a church was needed — any kind — it didn’t matter much; 
while to offset this, when once secured, the broader minded citizens 
argued that a lawyer should be found. Some held out for two, but the 
conservatives prevailed, contending that if a man knew the law at all, he 
could handle both sides quite as easily as he could manage one, and thus 
by dealing with them both, afford to make a big discount in fees. True, 
some sarcastic ne’er-do-well suggested also making him trial judge — he 
would understand the pros and cons of plaintiff and defendant both, and 

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then the cost, most naturally, would be lower to the town. This question 
served to press more firmly on their minds the fourth and final need — 
a complete, up-to-date and warranted form of municipal government. 
The best they could do at this just now was embodied in their possession 
of an aged, one legged rheumatic, who more by courtesy than by any 
recognized authority had been styled Chief Constable of the town. They 
were tired of seeing even stray dog cases tried at Beaver Junction. That 
place, mind you, was the county seat, and so far as its residents were 
concerned, the center of the universe; Red Hill — when they thought of 
it at all — being a mere way station “up the line.” Because of this the 
Red Hill spirit writhed and squirmed. Its residents were sick of hearing 
“Beaver Junction this,” and “Beaver Junction that,” and proposed to own 
a “sure-enough, twenty- four carat town government” themselves, or know 
the reason why; a decision which the Torch and Trumpet, the sole news- 
paper of the place, having nothing else to talk about, took all of four 
successive weekly issues to elaborate upon, conscientiously forwarding 
its cleanest copies to the fifty foremost papers in the land. 

In the first great need was found the opportunity of Marie, which 
promptly grasped, had proved no less a God-send to herself than to the 
women of Red Hill. She possessed that rare and subtle quality called 
tact, and with it a sound business judgment, some knowledge of the 
trade, and taste; a combination accounting fully for her recent leasing 
of a larger store. 

As for the legal talent and the church, that, to Anholt, seemed a 
need designed by Providence for his particular benefit. Bishop might 
profess to be a little rusty at the law, and Storey kick considerably at 
preaching in the street, but of what real value are your friends if they 
shy at details such as these ? He shuddered at the possibility of their 
expressing an inclination to labor on the farm. It was difficult enough 
to get the crops harvested as it was— why, therefore, should he incur the 
chances of a strike? And since they had disclosed their firm intention of 
coming on, whether it suited him or not, he felt in duty bound to make 
some provision for their time; the outcome being an extra edition of the 

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Torch and Trumpet, in which wood cuts of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and 
the Tombs Prison stood in juxtaposition, as an illustration of what Red 
Hill was coming to. 

And since these strides toward the dignity of a metropolitan estate 
were entirely due to the indefatigable efforts of their esteemed fellow 
townsman, Mr. Anholt, what more natural than the intimation, editorially 
expressed, that the town might go further and fare worse than by electing 
him first mayor of the municipality to be? 

It looked indeed, as if the Anholt dynasty was booked for something 
more than dreams. 


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CHAPTER III. 

Following a late supper on the day succeeding the arrival of Storey 
and Bishop, those two worthies, accompanied by Anholt, sought the 
comfort of certain rustic benches placed temptingly near the tent, 
which, for lack of room within the house, had been purchased and 
furnished for their especial use. 

“That pipe,” explained their host, after they had settled themselves, 
and indicating with a nod the one which Storey was cautiously turn- 
ing over in his hands, “was carved by yours truly for this happy 
occasion out of the finest corncob that ever grew. Fellows, there 
was enough corn on that — hello! what now?” as the recipient of his 
gift, blowing on its stem, like an amateur musician on a clarinet, grew 
pop-eyed, red, and seemed threatened with an explosion of the cheeks. 
“I’m blessed if I didn’t forget to clean that out. Anybody got a hat 
pin? Funny! Here, Nora — N-o-r-a!” as he caught sight of Eleanor 
scampering across the lawn. Turning she ran toward him with out- 
stretched arms, to be received with a gentle hug and kiss. 

“Go ask mama, dear, for her hat pin. Mr. Storey’s blowing up. 
Hurry now!” and he clapped his hands as she, after first looking 
wonderingly at the big man, scurried away in the full belief that his 
life depended on her speed. Storey, who had been watching her, 
turned thoughtfully to the foster father. 

“There is something about that little girl strangely appealing to me,” 
he observed, slowly. “An indefinable expression in the eyes at times, 
reminding one of Miss Von Bonhorst. Have you ever noticed it?” 

“My dear fellow,” came the noncommittal reply, “Marie’s eyes are 
dark. Storey here,” he added, addressing Bishop, “has certainly got 
one woman on the brain. I think I can see our Utopia relegated to 
the dump.” 

“So far as that’s concerned,” said the smaller man, “everything is 
Marie. That wild-eyed mustang of yours is Marie. The bull terrior 

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is Marie. If he waked up some night beside a bed bug he’d say it 
remi 

“My friends!” — the tone brought Bishop’s comment to an abrupt 
close; “we’ll let that subject drop. Suppose we take up matters that 
interest us all as soon” — here he took the hat pin from a dimpled 
hand — “as soon as I finish Anholt’s work. In the meantime he might 
regale us with some more information about his crops” — a suggestion 
resulting in a prolonged and elaborate review of their host’s experience 
on the farm, together with a statement of the pedigree, cost and 
virtues of every animal to be found thereon, all supplemented by a 
learned dissertation on the various diseases they were subject to. 
Doubtless he would be going still, had not the minister, finishing his 
pipe, interrupted his harangue with the remark : 

“My friends, ’tis growing dark, and I would to thee a tale unfold. 
Would’st hear it, gentlemen?” 

“I ‘would’st,’ ” said Bishop. 

“And I.” 

“Then mark ye well these words : There lived once upon a time in 
the city of New York, a famous gambler. The stench arising from his 
place of business reached the nostrils of every honest citizen, until 
in time, the boldest leagued together to rid the city of him and all his 
class. The leader of the crusaders was a minister, forceful, resource- 
ful, brave. The campaign waged for months, but finally the righteous 
people won, and gambling was suppressed. Many of these vanquished 
thieves turned to politics. Among them he of whom I spoke. This 
new vocation suited him, like water suits a duck. He grew in wealth 
and power, until in time he held the city in his hands. Some years 
ago an extension to a city park was planned. This meant the 
purchase of adjoining land. Ten of the lots needed were owned by the 
minister I told you of. He believed the agent who approached him 
asking for his price to be a friend. He named a figure the land was 
worth. Through this man the sale was made, the lots transferred, 
and an affidavit signed by both the minister and his wife, in which the 
price they originally paid for the property was set forth. The agent 

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claimed this to be a protective measure taken by the city administra- 
tion in anticipation of graft charges later being made. In the course. of 
time the extension to the park was finished, the few mutterings about 
the prices paid to various owners ceased, and the agent of whom I 
spoke was killed in a brawl in some saloon. Municipal conditions 
went from bad to worse. The advocates of reform grew loud and a 
forced investigation of the city books was made. On the committee 
appointed for this task was a fledgling of the law, a son of the minister 
who years before had fought for civic cleanliness. To him and two 
associates was assigned the clearing up of smothered charges arising 
from the purchase of park lands. In this investigation the records 
covering the transaction with his father were scrutinized. Here, to 
his astonishment, the evidence of graft was clear. His own knowl- 
edge of the matter disclosed this at a glance. His father had paid 
eight thousand dollars for the lots, He had sold them for nine. The 
records gave the price paid by the city as fourteen thousand. His 
father’s receipt verified the books. On top of this was an affidavit 
subscribed to by both parents alleging the cost to them had been 
thirteen thousand instead of eight. Against this of course would be 
found such partial evidence as the tax assessment books might disclose 
and the inference to be drawn through knowledge of the surrounding 
values. The original deed itself showed nothing, the consideration 
stated being a merely nominal one. But the testimony of the former 
owner was available. This would expose the truth, and brand the 
signers to the affidavit as perjurers. This man had been summoned, 
as had numbers of other former owners of titles to the purchased 
properties. The investigation was to be thorough; each case to be 
fully covered. As yet the young lawyer’s parents were safe. In their 
case the public had evidenced no suspicion of irregularity. But as 
with every other transaction of like nature it must bear the test of 
scrutiny. His associates on the committee, from all that he could see, 
had given the matter no serious thought, handling it in a routine way, 
with neither apparent interest nor prejudice. When they were in pos- 
session of the contradictory evidence, however, they would be obliged 

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to act. Whatever was to be done, therefore, must be done at once. 
Here was graft, perjury, crime, with his parents, so far as the docu- 
ments would show, the criminals. The agent was dead. No expla- 
nation could be had from him. The young attorney recalled a casual 
statement made by his father to the effect that all the papers had been 
signed in blank at the suggestion of the man now dead, the latter’s 
explanation being that he was pressed for time and would fill them in 
at a later hour. He knew by that, who the actual criminal had been, 
where this difference of five thousand dollars had gone, and why the 
affidavit had been drawn. But proof was lacking, and to charge the 
crime to one now dead without evidence to support the charge, would 
tend to hurt, instead of help his parents’ cause. Their salvation could 
be found only in an immediate cessation of probing into the case. 
There was one person who could stop it. The man his father had 
condemned and fought long years before. His god was wealth and 
he knew no sentiment. He undoubtedly could be bought. Such was 
the young man’s argument. He used his influence to secure an inter- 
view, placed the matter bluntly before the city’s boss, and asked his 
price. He was told to call again. Then he received his answer — in 
substance this: ‘Your father is the only man who ever got the best of 
me. He’s the only man I hate. He put me down and out, he thought. 
He called me the biggest scoundrel in New York ; said he’d rather have 
his son a murderer than to have him live a life like mine. There was 
no term so vile he didn’t hurl at me. I owe him something — now he’ll 
get it. Here’s my price. You’ll equip the swellest gambling joint in 
town. You’ll run it under your proper name, and run it yourself, 
mind you — not through substitutes. You’ll pay for your protection 
like the rest have got to do. You do this and I’ll see that you’re not 
closed up. You’ll turn all or part of your profits back to me. When 
you’ve paid me say, two hundred thousand plunks, you quit, but you’ve 
got to make that money at the game. I’ll see you do it. That’s my 
price. You pay it or the old folks go to jail.’ The young man agreed. 
One year later his father died, doubtless of a broken heart, but honored. 
The mother lives, and now is happy. Eighteen months ago the young 

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man went to France, saw the boss, there on his vacation, and paid the 
last cent of the debt. Two weeks later he sought his former fiance. 
She was in a convent. He turned to his mother and spent a year in 
close attendance by her side. Now he’s here. That’s the story, 
gentlemen.” 

For this revelation of Bishop’s tragic past, uttered in the calmest, 
most dispassionate of tones, Storey had chosen a fitting time. Night 
was in the ascendant. All was shadow. No faces to read, no eyes to 
fathom, no emotions brought to view. Above the rustling leaves the 
stars now shone, but no light from them had penetrated here. There, 
where Anholt sat, the glowing ashes in his pipe, now red, now white, 
by rapid turns, alone gave hint of some disturbance in his brain. 
From Bishop neither sound nor signal. He was listening for his 
friend’s comments. 

Storey, having finished, filled his pipe. Then, for an instant, as the 
match struck fire, a tableau — a fleeting study where attitudes were 
eloquent of passions in restraint. Anholt was leaning forward, with 
chin imbedded in the hollow of one hand; the other, clenched, was 
resting on his knee. His face was rigid ; his eyes glistened ; his teeth 
sunk in the pipe-stem like the jaws of a remorseless vise. 

Bishop was standing — standing as he did that night when Anholt 
first had realized the other’s mastery of men — imperious, inscrutable, 
fearless; possessor of an adamantine will that brooked no opposition; 
of a loyalty in friendship inviolable till death. Thus he stood, with 
gaze fixed straight ahead, the same unreadable character as of yore. 

The light had vanished. Silence still prevailed. Finally Anholt 
spoke : 

“The incriminating affidavit — what became of it?” 

“Destroyed,” Bishop answered. 

“Did this — this boss — had he a hand in the deal, do you suppose?” 

“He planned it. That’s why— afterwards— he saw that I was made 
one of the committeemen.” 

“So! You were to be made your parents’ executioner! What 
made him wait so long, though?” 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 

“The agent had to die, or disappear. You understand?” 

“I do.” 

Again quiet. Bishop was heard to resume his seat. The laughter 
of children ready for their beds rang out upon the night. Somewhere 
a horse neighed. Then, way yonder, in the east, the moon crept 
cautiously into sight. 

“Bishop!” exclaimed Anholt, impelled to speak again; “words aren’t 
worth a picayune to a man at such a time as this. You know how I 
feel, and what I think, and that’s worth more than all the blubbering 
sympathy in the world. Before we drop the subject, though, I’d like 
to know why I wasn’t in on this long ago.” 

“Because, my friend,” said Storey, answering in the other’s stead; 
■“when his father learned that Stanley Hope and I both knew, he 
secured the promise of our brother here, to tell nobody else until his 
contract had been fulfilled. His father, Anholt, would have fought 
the charge himself, and wanted to, despite the knowledge that he must 
inevitably lose. But there was Mrs. Bishop, an invalid, who would be 
sacrificed, and his son who had already bound himself, was obdurate. 
I mention this in justice to the father of our friend.” 

“All of this,” observed Anholt, “only makes me more cock sure that 
no wrong has ever yet been done that somebody hasn’t suffered for. 
If it isn’t the guilty, it’s the innocent. It’s a devilish funny kind of 
law, it seems to me. Anyhow” — pounding the ashes from his pipe and 
standing up — “I suppose it can’t be helped !” adding, as he shoved his 
tobacco pouch in Storey’s hand, “I’m off for a lantern. I want to give 
you fellows a piece of news before we join the women. It sounds 
pretty good to me.” 

In ten minutes he was back, a pitcher of lemonade in one hand, a 
lantern in the other. Placing the latter on the ground before them he 
ventured the opinion that if Bishop wanted a drink at all he’d “best 
get busy quick;” a reflection on Storey’s inordinate capacity that 
caused the minister to promptly withdraw his hands. 

“Just imagine, fellows, that you’re down at Nowhere when you go 
after this. Think of that dry and torrid .” 

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“That’ll do, my friend; I’m ready to swallow the pitcher now. 
What’s Bishop waiting for?” as the object of his inquiry, holding the 
vessel in both hands, looked curiously around. “I suppose he wants a 
glass and serviette. Will somebody kindly press the button?” — a 
crude bit of sarcasm which secured him speedy possession of the cov- 
eted liquid prize. 

“You notice how cold that water is?” asked Anholt. “Well, that’s 
from the coolest, dandiest spring west of the Mississippi. You don’t 
need ice with that any more than Bishop needed a cut glass cup. I’ve 
got a jug of cider sunk .” 

“What!” spurted Storey, lowering the pitcher and nearly choking in 
the pleasurable excitement induced by this happy bit of news. 

“I said,” repeated his host, “that I’ve got a jug of cider sunk in the 
water of that spring, that’s made from the juiciest, biggest, and reddest 
apples that ever ripened in the sunshine. We’ll toast the women 
folks with it when we go in.” 

“Verily, my friend” — the plump cheeks were again in hiding behind 
the polished glass — “this is a country where superlatives run wild.” 

Anholt, reclaiming his tobacco pouch, disregarded this verbal attack 
on his enthusiasm, and having completed all the formalities necessary 
to the proper enjoyment of a smoke, divulged the promised news 
between occasional puffs. 

“You fellows remember that guano deal? Well, you’ll recall then, 
that when I supposed that Rosseau was trying to throw me down, I 
gobbled the privileges up myself with a line of options. I’ve sweat 
blood half a dozen times since, in raising the money to keep them alive. 
I’ve still got ’em. Well, who should write me a month ago but the 
Continental Phosphate and Fertilizer people, wanting to know if I’d 

sell out. I answered ‘yes — what’ll you pay — when?’ They replied 

the letter came today — ‘a hundred thousand if closed quick.’ Is the 
synopsis intelligible, so far, gentlemen?” Both men nodded affirma- 
tively. “Well, what do you think I’m going to do about it, eh?” look- 
ing alternately from one to the other. 

“I wilt!” said Bishop. 


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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


“And you, Storey?” 

“My friend, the man who wrote about the ways of Providence being 
inscrutable, had never heard of you. Will it be a home for orphaned 
infants, or a three-ringed circus — admission free?” 

“What I’m going to do,” said Anholt, after he had thoroughly 
digested the profound reply, “is this: I’m going over to the Junction 
tomorrow, since Bishop hasn’t any notary papers yet, and execute a 
power of attorney to Rosseau, giving him power to close those nego- 
tiations for me, receipt for the money, and reimburse himself and all 
the rest. Maybe that’ll help to square me a little bit in his eyes and 
theirs. And I want to tell you now that I believe Rosseau was doing 
all along what he thought was for the best interest of the company, 
regardless of how he went about it. I don’t know where to reach him 
now, so I’ll write Cunningham explaining matters and let him fire the 
Professor’s letter on to him, wherever he is. If there’s any money left 
over, they can keep it as interest. How does that strike you, fellows?” 

“It’s a characteristic decision, Anholt,” said Storey, gravely. “The 
more so, since the obligation is a moral and not a legal one. It reflects 
your inherent tendency to sentiment in business affairs — a quality that 
you can afford to exercise now, in view of your present manner of 
living, where it only brought you misfortune before. It’s a creditable 
and eminently proper step to take, my friend, and therefore one that 
I — and Bishop would have expected of you.” 

“Storey’s right,” affirmed Bishop, who had extended himself com- 
fortably on the bench; “only he should have called your attention to 
the fact that now you’re following sentiment in the right direction. 
When you do that it don’t hurt — anytime or anywhere. It looks to me, 
Anholt, as if, by the time Storey reaches that inheritance we’ll both 
have our faces washed. How long yet, brother?” turning to the 
minister. 

“In eighteen months, gentlemen, I shall be prepared to finance our 
experiment. In the meantime .” 

“In the meantime,” interrupted Anholt; “love and religion are going 
to run horse and horse, and Blackstone will have a local representa- 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


tive. About eighteen months of this and we’ll have population enough 
— I mean we can start proceedings with our own families, eh Storey?” 

The reply was an earnest and soft “Amen !” 

“As a matter of fact, fellows,” persisted the pioneer Red Hillian of 
the three, “we’ve got enough work cut out to occupy that time. We 
don’t even know where we’re going to open fire.” 

“That’s simple,” said Bishop. “From what that fellow — what’s 
his name — Jack Stahl? — told me, you’ll be mayor of this burg. We’ll 
let you practice the idea here. Maybe they’ll take to it.” 

“And maybe they won’t,” was the retort. “The first thing we’re 
going to do when we break loose, will be to hike off and hide our faces. 
If we can get off the earth, all the better. Then we’ll cut communica- 
tions until .” 

“Until we wake up,” suggested Bishop. 

“Or until,” said Storey, “fraternal strife shall make a cipher of our 
population.” 

“If you two consistent altruists must indulge in tomfoolery, go at it 
right. You’ll find the ladies on the porch,” and not to be outdone in 
folly, Anholt undertook to lead the way. 


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CHAPTER IV. 

With the advent of Storey and Bishop, the ambitious Red Hillians, 
long restive under conditions necessitating their playing second fiddle 
to Beaver Junction, girded up their loins; sniffed the breeze like 
warriors ready for the fray; held indignation meetings nightly in 
front of Joe Fisher’s store; passed resolutions by the score for the 
guidance of the state legislature, which, during its next session at Bis- 
mark would take up the matter of Red Hill’s charter, and with rank 
heresy discussed electric lighting and street railway franchises; rate 
of interest on their first flotation of city bonds, and settled profound 
questions of municipal government in general, to the exclusion of 
crops, weather, and inside information concerning the domestic affairs 
of the neighborhood. 

Every male adult in the community, in furtherance of his determina- 
tion to keep abreast the times, searched industriously for some excuse 
to go to law, which interpreted, meant a friendly visit to the office of 
the Honorable S. R. Bishop, whose disinclination to insist on fees 
materially facilitated their efforts to discover some plausible pretext 
for the call. True, had each of these unruffled clients made a micro- 
scopic examination of his brain immediately after the invariably satis- 
factory consultation, he might have detected the germ of an opinion 
harboring there, in which the names, “Anson Van Anholt” and “mayor- 
alty” were strangely hyphenated. Whether he could have traced the 
origin of this embryonic thought to his adviser’s lips or not, remains 
an entirely different proposition. Certain it is, that no encouragement 
to its growth was discoverable in anything that Anholt had ever been 
heard to say, unless his “no” was to be construed as yes, and his “yes” 
as no. 

Perhaps the greatest cause of Red Hill’s inflated pride lay in its pos- 
session of a minister whose fame had spread across the country, and 
whose sermons were being printed in every paper from Fargo west to 

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Butte. Nor was its self-complacency lessened any by the occasional 
arrival of church delegations from Bismark, Glendive, and even 
Beaver Junction, with alluring inducements to the town’s religious 
head to affiliate himself with the sacred cause in their respective com- 
munities; an invitation always declined, to the great delectation of Red 
Hill, and sure to be followed by a decrease in the population of some promi- 
nent townsman’s chicken yard. 

In fact, All Men’s Church, as Storey, who had erected it at his own 
expense, insisted on calling it, was rapidly becoming a household word 
in the country for miles around, while the cavalcades of buggies, 
wagons, and saddle horses, all carrying their loads of uncomfortably 
dressed, but honest workers of the soil, filed on Sundays along the 
roads converging near the railroad crossing, like processions seen 
along the rural routes back East on circus day. There was little of the 
conventional about the church itself — a long, low structure, in which 
perhaps five hundred persons could seat themselves on benches quite 
devoid of backs, and at the farthest end of which was raised a platform, 
holding ordinarily a single chair and stand. In front, and on either 
side of the building, extended a wide, protected porch, where benches 
and tables, roughly made, were placed about at random — a wise pro- 
vision for the country folks, who used it after morning service as a 
place whereon to spread their lunches and to discuss the crops with 
friends. Outside, the structure was rough, unpainted and uninviting. 
The interior showed evidence of some expense and taste. The ceiling 
was beamed; the walls — except the end where the platform stood — 
were neatly finished in some hard wood. The exception — the rear 
wall — had first been plastered, then covered with pure white paint; 
while around its edges — top, bottom and sides — ran a crimson band of 
color, twelve inches broad. In gilt letters, near the ceiling, were 
these words : 

“IN LIFE WITH MEN. IN DEATH WITH GOD.” 

Directly under them, in smaller letters, was added : 

“Let Us Find Patience; In This Thought.” 

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On the floor, to the extreme right of the platform, stood a small 
organ, usually played during services by Dorothy or Marie. The seats, 
though lacking much in comfort, were well made and finished in a rich 
mahogany color. Three chandeliers — one directly over the platform — 
and a number of oil lamps, ranged on brackets around the walls, pro- 
vided ample light for night meetings. A dozen windows — set high, 
owing to the porch outside — did similar duty during the day. Two 
huge stoves near the entrance furnished heat. There was no belfry; a 
near-by tree, rigged out with bell and rope, serving the purpose quite 
as well. The building, facing east, was situated on a short side street, 
just ofT the main road running from Anholt’s farm to the business 
centre of the town. For a thorough understanding of incidents to 
come, these details should be carefully fixed in mind. 

The sermons, as little orthodox as the structure itself, were equally 
well-fitted to the people, the conditions, and the time. Catholic or 
Protestant, Jew or Gentile, believer or atheist, it mattered not; in this 
church all met on neutral ground. There was but one religion taught ; 
on that each could understand and profit by, without conflicting with 
the doctrines of his or her accepted faith — the helpful, universal truth 
of man’s brotherhood to man. 

In his labors the minister found an invaluable assistant in David 
Eastman, and no inconsiderable portion of his time was devoted to 
preparing that young enthusiast for carrying on the work, when he, 
in accordance with his understanding with Bishop and Anholt, would 
be obliged to give it up. Anholt, who had first suggested the succes- 
sion, united with Storey in this interesting educational task, confining 
himself, however — as he expressed it, “to the strictly secular end.” 
As for the lad himself — if truth were told — he found the ointment not 
without its proverbial fly ; that particular disturbing factor in this case 
being the inevitable separation from Anholt which the present arrange- 
ment implied ; a separation, to avoid which, he had relinquished his 
Salvation Army work, and joined the other here. He had, however, 
long since learned to subordinate his personal desires to the welfare 
of the cause to which he had attached himself, and the arguments 

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advanced by his friends were so obviously intended not alone for his 
own benefit, but for that of the community around, that acquiescence 
appeared imperative. 

The unexpected offer to Anholt for his options on the guano rights, 
had placed him in position where he would be free to co-operate with 
his two associates in their long planned experiment, when Storey said 
the word. In the meantime, as he had prophesied, there was ample to 
do in the way of preparation; so much so, indeed, that it encroached 
considerably both on the church work of Storey and the law practice 
of Bishop. However, as their present occupations were — to use the 
words of the legal gentleman — “but temporary expedients for killing 
time, and thereby easing Anholt’s mind,” the intrusion was welcomed, 
rather than otherwise, and eventually resulted in a practical unanimity 
of opinion being reached on hitherto debated points. An extension of 
three rooms had been built to Anholt’s house for the use of his friends. 
The largest of these rooms had been converted into a study, and here 
the pros and cons were thrashed out, revisions made, and sheets of 
foolscap scribbled on, until in time one might have imagined their 
colony under way and this the government record room. 

Thus at the expiration of nine months from the date marking the 
reunion of Anholt with his friends, we can discern a calm and settled 
condition of affairs, which in the lives of two at least, might be com- 
pared to the spell wrought by a soothing opiate after the mental stress 
of a stormy and havoc-making day. And yet, before another year had 
passed, all of this would be a memory — be sacrificed in deference to 
convictions which, when announced, must subject their owners to 
public ridicule and sneers. 

To Anholt, one phase only of the present situation, caused more or 
less annoyance. The state legislature, during the winter, had voted 
a municipal charter to Red Hill, whereupon the delighted residents 
of that place had appointed a committee of the town’s best rated 
business men and ordered them to proceed to Anholt’s farm forthwith, 
and there advise its owner to prepare to act as first mayor of Red 
Hill, whether the idea suited him or not. The idea didn’t suit him 

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and he quickly told them so, repeating the information so many times 
in the next few weeks, that a few of the more conservative felt half 
inclined to take him at his word. But the majority agreed to draft 
him anyhow, and proposed to make his election so rousingly unani- 
mous that a refusal then to serve would amount practically to gross 
discourtesy, both to his friends and to the community at large. Yes, 
he had notified them of his probable departure from their country 
within the year, but since so many unforseen events can happen in that 
time they would assume the risk — besides, he could get things started 
properly at least. As for Bishop — he was needed where he was. Who 
would argue and distort the law before “His Honor,” if the Mayor 
himself was the only legal luminary in the place? 

One of the older citizens? Well, they were all too busy, or — let it 
be whispered — wise enough to know their own shortcomings, as 
indeed, they were informed on those of everybody else; a sufficient 
reason why, unless Anholt would consent to run, this first election 
would probably play “high jinks” with the social structure of Red 
Hill. 

In the unwilling young man’s household, opinions differed as to the 
proper course for him to take. Dorothy and Marie, longing for a 
continuance of the present quietude, fervently opposed all suggestions 
looking to his acceptance of the proffered honor. Storey remained 
neutral, while Bishop insisted that his friend’s duty lay in subjugat- 
ing his personal inclinations to the desire of a community so 
avowably and entirely friendly to him. So far as the farm was con- 
cerned, he contended, the other’s official duties would not prevent his 
exercising a watchful eye over it. David Eastman, always frank and 
courageous when he believed his conclusions right, said he thought 
that “Mr. Anholt ought to stand for election, but that he should, in 
fairness, tell the voters first about his trouble;” a bit of advice which 
appealed more favorably to the one directly interested, than to the 
other members of the family group. 

“Davey’s right about that,” he remarked to Bishop one evening 
when the matter was under discussion. If it wasn’t that I don’t want 

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the office and won’t have it, I’d tell them quick what kind of a candi- 
date they wanted to foist upon themselves. I’ll work for nobody, city 
or individual, unless they know who they’re employing, and that’s 
flat. It would simply be a repetition of the gear affair, if I didn’t. 
I’d keep my mouth shut, let my friends entrust their interests to my 
keeping, and then risk exposure that would make them look like a lot 
of suckers to every town around. It isn’t a square game, Bishop, and 
I won’t play it !” 

“Is the gear company a success?” inquired his listener, meaningly. 

“Yes, because fortunately the sword didn’t drop until after the first 
dividend had been paid. That didn’t make my part any cleaner 
though. Took back at the guano deal. Professor Rosseau and the rest 
had good cause for feeling sore. After their money was gone they 
awoke to the fact that they’d been in partnership with a reformatory 
graduate.” 

“And they’re in clover now,” commented Bishop. 

“Why? Because a miracle occurred. Do you think that pays 
Rosseau for his loss of business ; for the year he spent in the Canadian 
woods, away from his family — half frozen, half starved, and on a 
meagre salary; all because he had confidence in me? Suppose that 
report about the guano being no good was faked. I don’t say — I 
don’t believe yet that he did it ; but suppose he did— suppose he wrote 
those letters to Chicago — another thing I’m doubtful about; what 
started it all but this cursed idea of trying to hide a repellant canker 
under a thin gauze of righteousness, to be shown up the first time you 
strike the light of day? It may be all right, so long as you live to your- 
self, and confine yourself to your personal affairs — I hope it is ! But 
when you touch your neighbor’s interests he’s entitled to know what 
you are and what you’ve been. If not, it’s a case of pretense, pretense, 
pretense; evading here, misrepresenting there, and all to hide a 
smaller error somewhere else. You’re dishonest with yourself, dis- 
honest with your friends, and dishonest with everybody else, every 
time you try it. I thank God, Bishop, that when our little colony is 

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born, our records will stand there in black and white for every man to 
read 1” 

“Anholt,” said Bishop, as his friend picked up a book ; “as a 
millennialist you exude a line of refulgent argument that makes mere 
mortals sit up and listen. As a practicalist your talk is about the 
most somniferous I’ve ever run across. Since the job would die of 
senility before the ordinary candidate could get all of his mistakes 
lined up, you ought to establish a minimum grade of offense at which 
the confession starts. Where are you going to put it — housebreaking, 
pinochle or matrimony? Will you confine it to legal or moral crimes, 
or both? To those discovered, or the hidden ones as well? Honest 
diaries from childhood up; the entire country a confessional; each 
inhabitant confessor as well as confessionalist, and every employer 
putting padlocks on the inkstands! I renig! I vote the Nobel prize 
for peace to the fellow who said ‘ignorance is bliss — at times !’ ” 

“Well,” retorted Anholt, “I’m not going to be Mayor.” 

“I think you will,” and supreme confidence was discernible in Bishop’s 
voice. 



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CHAPTER V. 

Near the southern limit of the Anholt farm and at a point furthest 
from the road, was a ridge of land, semi-circular in shape and some 
three hundred feet in length. Standing on its summit one looked down 
upon a half enclosed area of carefully trimmed and velvety grass, while 
off to the southwest — through the opening caused by the break in eleva- 
tion — lay a vista of nature yet untouched ; a gentle rise and fall of shade- 
less plains, furnishing the horizon for a setting sun. In the exact 
center of this natural playground, formed by the partially encompassing 
protuberant earth, stood a solitary, spreading maple tree, planted by the 
pioneer owner of the place, and now in the full vigor of its maturity. On 
the sward covered ridge a half dozen clumps of shrubbery grew, while 
seats, roughly improvised, provided in the warmer months an alluring 
resting place for those who chanced to pass that way. Here, in the early 
evenings of the preceding summer, the Anholt household had been wont 
to congregate, musing or talking as the spirit willed, while eyes followed 
the movements of merry children romping on the grass below. The 
place had been endowed by its owner with a name — The Lovers’ Roost — 
which appellation grew in appropriativeness as the family group increased. 
Idealism could conjure up no more enchanting spot wherein betrothals 
might be wrought, or plights be sealed in the pressing of sweet lips to lips. 

Here, in the late afternoon of an April Sabbath — the Sunday immedi- 
ately prior to Red Hill’s first municipal election day — Marie and Storey, 
lost in reflections bearing on the greatest issues of their respective lives, 
sat gazing silently upon the tranquil, peace compelling view; captives 
both to sacred thoughts — thoughts touching on the universal theme, and 
yet withal, so hopelessly divergent that neither for a time had dared to 
give them utterance. When finally the woman spoke, the trend of her 
meditation seemed partially disclosed. She appeared now to be com- 
muning with herself — soliloquizing, rather than speaking for the other’s 
ears : 


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“To sleep — forever — in this abode of peace! To rest there — where 
the maple stands; where Eleanor and Stanley play; with their laughter 
as my requiem — their tribute to my memory, wild -flowers — plucked by 
them and strewn across the grave ! I wish — I wish somehow it could 
be so !” 

Before she ceased a strong man’s hand had taken possession of her 
own, and held it — held it in a grasp as gentle as his words ; as tender as 
the love light shining in his eyes. 

“My dear Marie! I wish that you could understand how much I 
grieve — how much my heart is aching in its love and sympathy for you. 
Can’t you — won’t you, let me share your sorrow to its full? It’s so little — 
such a little favor compared to what I hunger for. Is it — tell me please, 
Marie — is it too much to ask?” 

The dark eyes looked appealingly in his. There was a faint but 
unsuccessful effort to withdraw the hand. The voice was unsteady, 
tremulous : 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Melville! I don’t know why I talked like that. 

You mustn’t — really, think I suffer, and with so many friends ! Why — 
how could I? You see, I — I guess I’m too — too sentimental. I .” 

“My noble woman, you are suffering — stifling an outburst of feeling 
due to some terrible anguish of your mind. Oh! brave soul — Marie! 
Am I not worthy of your confidence? And — look upon me, dear! Am 
I not big enough and strong enough to act as burden bearer for us both ? 
See! dear heart, the eventide draws near, and soon men’s passions, 
sorrows, struggles, will vanish in forgetfulness. Look! Marie — Look! 
my princess ; the setting sun is waiting — tarrying, for the joyous message 
from your lips — for the signal of triumphant love; prepared to gather 
up the past, with all of its unutterable woes, and with them sink beyond 
the ken and care of those whose respect and comradeship we crave. 
Won’t you breathe that precious message now — in just one single, blessed 
word? Marie! Beloved! my will surrenders to my love for you. I 
violate the promise made you, dear — the sacred gift — don’t you under- 
stand ? I want it — want you — need you — forever, as my own !” 

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The massive fingers had taken firmer hold upon the woman’s warm, 
ungloved hand. She had turned beseechingly to him — started to inter- 
rupt; then paused and waited patiently until he was done. When she 
answered every word and gesture told of the futility of his plea. It was 
not the woman of an hour since ; not the woman of yesterday who spoke, 
but the Marie of months — aye, of years ago. She who had answered 
sentiment with facts, and championed Anholt’s cause, while he, and Hope, 
and all the rest were glossing over the unpleasant truths with a veneer of 
confidence, neither helpful nor at times deserved. And yet in every 
phrase her voice proclaimed her appreciation of the sacrifice she made. 

“Your words are cruel, Melville. And you promised me so faithfully, 
never, never to ask me that again. Perhaps the setting sun does some- 
times bring quietude, but darkness follows too, and brings its many 
horrors to uneasy, hopeless minds. The sun you speak of grins sardon- 
ically at what it leaves behind, instead of acting as a scavenger for you, 
or I, or those who dread the night. I do suffer ! Why should I deny it ? 
but my relief, dear Melville, is not to come through you, nor yet through 
yon low, descending orb. Oh ! understand me please. I do respect you. 
I admire and — I like you. You are so manly, so good, so gentle and 
true! If I were so — if I could marry you, believe me, I would have 
answered yes, and proudly — long ago. If in telling you my troubles, I 
could make your disappointment lighter, I would do so gladly. But 
don’t you see” — her free hand was placed impulsively on his — “you 
couldn’t help me if I did, and it would be harder — Oh! impossible, for 
us to live near one another then. Let us continue as we are — good, loyal 
friends ! Besides, you have your own great work mapped out. A wife, 
just now, would be a hindrance rather than a gain.” 

“Do you believe Anholt thinks so ?” asked Storey, the gloom deepening 
on his face. 

“Oh, but he has Dorothy!” 

“And I would have Marie.” 

“But Dorothy, don’t you understand? is so different — so entirely dif- 
ferent from others of our sex.” 

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“I recognize all that, and next to you I consider her the dearest, 
sweetest little — 

“Oh ! but she’s more even than you appear to think. Don’t you realize 
what a power for good she is in Mr. Anholt’s life, and mine, and — yours, 
and all the rest? Don’t you know that she’s the strongest woman, I do 
believe, in all the world? She’s like the patient and forgiving Christ — 
so firm and yet so gentle. She’s like a beacon that never wavers, regard- 
less of the storms, or calms, or seas — marking the one spot where safety 
always lies. I couldn’t be like that — you see, I’m too changeable.” 

With this enthusiastic panegyric of her friend, her countenance took 
on the faintest semblance of a smile ; a change unnoticed by the man who 
continued staring at the ruddy, western sky. 

“You possess all of Dorothy’s virtues,” he managed to reply at last, 
“and one of Anholt’s faults. Like him you will hide and cherish some 
inconsequential trouble of a generation past, to the ruination not only 
of your own life, but of mine as well.” The woman made an attempt 
to withdraw her hand, the result being that Storey, holding it closer than 
before, turned and looked her in the eyes. 

“Marie, dear,” he said; “nothing that has ever happened in your life 
could alter this unconquerable love of mine for you. If you have assumed 
the burden of another’s sins; if you yourself, perchance have erred; if 
you’ve been wronged — I care not what the trouble is, I want you, beloved. 
Do you understand? I want you — want you, in spite of all that was or 
is. I shall want you always, regardless of anything that ever, ever comes. 
I want you, and by the right of this consuming love ; by the right of an 
honest manhood — despite your ‘noes’ repeated for the thousandth time, 
I propose to claim you as my wife. You love me — I know it — can see it 
in your eyes — feel it in your trembling hand. Am I — a man — a servant 
of the living Christ, to permit false pride, or prejudice, or some hypo- 
critical conceit, to blockade the pathway of my love, while my queen, 
my beloved bride to be, stands just beyond — unprotected, heart-sore and 
alone? Am I, a preacher of Divine forgiveness, to lose the richest jewel 
tendered me, as I believe, by the hand of God himself, because a powerful 
microscope might, perhaps, reveal an infinitesimal flaw? Our troth, do 

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you understand, is pledged right here ! You, Marie — my suffering, 
blessed child, are mine — mine now, tomorrow, for all the time to come. 
Oh ! Father, keep us safely from this day forward in the shelter of Thy 
loving arms ! Marie — Marie — Marie !” 

Lower, tenderer grew the voice. Slowly the fair, soft hand was raised 
to receive the strange betrothal kiss — and then — the woman — the tears — 
the sobs — the quivering frame — the broken words : 

“I — Oh! I cannot. I do — I love you, but — Oh! Melville, dear, it 
can — can never, never be. Oh ! dearest, generous Melville — I — 

A huge hand, clumsy at the — to it — novel and unprecedented act, 
touched her arm — her shoulder — and then, encouraged by the unresisting 
attitude, stole gradually around her waist. 

“There, there, child ! try not to think about it for a while. We’ll keep 
it dear, just as a little secret between ourselves. Please,” as she under- 
took to speak, “please don’t ! Let us say nothing more about it now.” 

Thus they sat and thought — and thought, and then as the last red 
streaks faded from the sky, they started in silence for the house. Once 
there, Marie, pleading a severe headache, went directly to her room. 
Neither she nor Dorothy attended services that night. As for Storey, 
his last words before retiring, were addressed in confidence to Anholt. 

“My friend, Marie has told me nothing, but if I can read the signs 
aright, a certain little girl will find another, if not a better dad.” 

A remark clearly refuting the calumnious charge that women alone 
divulge great secrets, and illustrating, by the way, the natural propensity 
of man to count his chickens before the shells are cracked. 


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CHAPTER VI. 


A PUBLIC MEETING 
will be held at 
ALL MEN’S CHURCH 
at 8 o’clock tonight. 

MR. ANSON VAN ANHOLT, 

who has declined to stand as a candi- 
date for Mayor at tomorrow’s election 
of City Officials, will disclose the rea- 
sons compelling his refusal of the 
proffered honor. 

All Citizens Are Requested To Attend. 


The above notice, in the form of a huge poster conspicuously displayed 
in front of the Torch and Trumpet office, had set Red Hill agog. The 
town was now in the throes of a new experience, ripe for excitement, and 
nervous with pleasurable anticipations of an election day that would 
establish her as the peer of her hated rival down the road. And here 
was an added — an unexpected attraction; a preliminary, whetting her 
curiosity, and promising a free for all, exhilarating treat. 

Notwithstanding the poster, the consensus of opinion among the leading 
citizens remained the same. They would hear Anholt, and then compel 
him to accept the office, whether he wanted to or not. Somebody sug- 
gested engaging the town band for the occasion, an enthusiastic under- 
taking promptly blocked by Anholt who heard of it, and who informed 
Reese Goodwin, the local editor, that if any music was to be placed upon 
the program, it should be in the way of a funeral dirge and not a wedding 

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march ; on hearing which, the thermometer of public interest took another 
and heart racking upward spurt. 

On the Anholt farm, the day to all appearances was similar to those 
preceding it, except that its owner, instead of laboring in the fields, 
seemed, with singular indifference to the sprouting crops, disposed to 
take his ease about the house, now playing with the children, and now 
cleaning and adjusting with wonder inspiring care, the parts to a recently 
purchased graphophone ; an instrument which, so he claimed, “knocked 
the kinks out of any other in the west.” 

Early in the day he had made his customary journey to the postoffice, 
still situated in Joe Fisher’s store; returning with a strange, inexplicable 
gleam noticeable in his eyes, and with its cause securely stowed away in 
an inside pocket of his coat. At noon, Storey, with an air of suppressed 
excitement came hurriedly to the house, motioned mysteriously for his 
friend — seated on the porch — to join him in their study, and behaved in 
general like some schoolboy nursing a stolen pear, which he proposed 
dividing with his nearest chum. 

“All right !” said Anholt, who having obeyed the summons, now 
reclined unconcernedly in a chair, “let’s have it !” 

“My friend,” replied the minister who remained standing, “there’s 
trouble brewing some place. Look at this !” He passed a yellow paper — 
a telegram — to the other’s hand. “I called on Mother Grote this morning 
and found this on my return, at Bishop’s office.” 

“How is the poor old body?” inquired the seated man, glancing unin- 
terestedly at the message. “It’s an awful thing for an old woman like 
her to be alone, don’t you think?” 

“She’s improving. Marie, you know, is attending to her wants. But” 
— he stepped forward impatiently — “about that telegram ! Mother Grote 
can wait. This can’t. Will you do me the courtesy of reading it?” 

“I have read it, Storey, but find nothing alarming. Merely a request 
from Cal Littleton to use the church tonight.” 

“And,” supplemented his companion, “to discuss an important matter 
bearing on tomorrow’s election. Is there nothing in that to cause appre- 

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hension, considering that this Littleton is the most unscrupulous lawyer 
in Beaver Junction?” 

Anholt handed the telegram back. “If I mistake not,” he said, “he 
was a member of the legislative committee that passed upon the Red Hill 
charter. Doubtless there is some legal point he desires explaining, to 
insure a valid election. Isn’t that reasonable to suppose?” 

“See here, my friend!” replied Storey, now resorting to a seat; “Marie 
has had a presentiment, and so have I, that tonight’s developments will 
exceed in unpleasantness anything you’ve figured on. I am convinced, 
absolutely, that your danger is connected with this request,” — tapping 
the message in his fingers. “I intend to wire a decided ‘no’ immediately. 
Your engagement of the church will be a sufficient reason.” 

“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Anholt. “My dear fellow,” 
he added, arising and placing his hand affectionately on his friend’s 
shoulder ; “I want you to encourage him to come. He will arrive on the 
eight o’clock train, undoubtedly, and I will delay my talk until he reaches 
the meeting. Believe me, old chap, there is no favor in all the world 
that you could grant me now, so great as this. And today, you know, 
is my day! It spells liberty, and I’m going to use Littleton himself, to 
break the shackles off. Just keep those words in mind! Send the answer 
quick — get him here. That’s all I want.” 

“Well!” exclaimed Storey, starting to obey, “I’ll do it, and may the 
good Lord protect and help you ! It seems I can’t !” 

“Take it easy!” was the response, as the two walked to the door. 
“Besides, he’d come anyhow — I’ll wager that!” 

As the minister, for once devoid of appetite for dinner, turned his steps 
toward the town, Anholt called for Dorothy, and reentering the study, 
resumed his seat. A moment later, and the air, so recently surcharged 
with oppressive portents of impending evil, seemed clarified as if by 
magic touch — as if some unseen influence had wafted there the purity 
and sweetness of budding trees and scented blossoms embellishing the 
lawn outside. 

“Did you call, dearest?” 


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“Yes, sweetheart! Come — will you please, and sit with me!” As his 
arm encircled her fragile waist, and his head bowed low to kiss the hand 
that so often had caressed and soothed his aching brow, he felt that it 
was good to live — that it was well to suffer, to toil, to sacrifice material 
things, so long as she — this precious emissary from above, was here to 
strengthen and enlighten him. 

“Do you know, little one,” he said at length as he drew her cheek 
closer, closer to his own, “I think perhaps I’ll bring a visitor home tonight, 
after the — the explanation. Can you arrange to find room somehow, if 
I do?” 

She drew her head away and eyed him wonderingly. “Why, yes, dear ! 
I could manage it, but who — who in the world is it, Van?” 

“Now, now, dearie! you’re almost like an ordinary woman when that 
little bee of curiosity begins to buzz. But there ! it’s someone we knew back 
East, and I’m afraid he’ll be — well, perhaps not feeling in tip top shape 
when he arrives.” 

“But Van, I do think you ought to tell me. It’s not nice in you to 
keep it back — now is it, dear?” Here she looked at him so pleadingly 
that his determination for a moment wavered. “And then too,” she 
continued, “if he’s sick he must have our room, and we — Oh, Van !” — 
clapping her hands — “we can fix up the tent again. Will you? Oh! 
won’t that just be fine?” Her enthusiasm was contagious, and he felt 
half inclined to begin the task at once. But there was a certain dread 
reality calling to him now; one that encouraged early flight of lighter, 
happier thoughts. 

“I’ll relieve your mind later, dearest. It’s just a little hint I received 
in a letter from Mr. Cunningham ; so you see I’m not quite sure myself. 
But tomorrow, if he don’t show up — no, not Mr. Cunningham ! — I’ll tell 
you who it is. And by the way, Professor Rosseau wrote me too ; says 
he’s doing fine again, and insists that we must visit him when we reach 
New York — if we ever do. Isn’t that startling news?” 

“Isn’t it good and satisfying news, dear?” she corrected. 

“You’re right, it is!” he conceded, after a thoughtful pause. “Now 
here, dearest! Here’s a piece of advice I want. Suppose somebody 

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knowingly, and in the belief that he was justified, did you a great injury. 
And suppose you could demonstrate to him that he was not justified, but in 
doing so you would be obliged to cause him intense misery and pain. 
And suppose, too, that in setting him right you would be enabled largely 
to obliterate the effects of his action on your life — would you, or would 
you not, be doing right in telling him the truth ?” 

The reply was instantaneous. “What you ask is simply an answer to 
a hypothetical question, and that, dear Van, is ‘yes/ Remember, dearie, 
that aside from your own position such a man is more unfortunate in his 
ignorance — anyhow in the end — than he could possibly be in his knowl- 
edge of the truth. If somebody else was being injured by a man like 
that, you would be the first to point the error and injustice out. And 
one’s deserved sufferings, dear, are hard enough in themselves to bear. 
You and I know that. And besides, how few are there, who being wrong, 
can be set right again, without encountering some pain? We must suffer, 
you know, before we can enjoy.” 

“Yes, and some people suffer and never come to peace. Look at 
Marie !” 

You mean here, dear. Marie, and you, and I, will all have peace — 
in just a little while. Remember the motto in Mr. Storey’s church — and 
Oh ! isn’t it grand to be able to look at things that way ?” 

“I suppose so,” he answered, drawing her to him and planting a pro- 
longed series of kisses on her brow. “But,” he added, after he had thus 
eased his mind; “if I don’t get some comfort after this affair tonight, I 
think I’ll go out and shoot up the town. Another thing” — as a new 
thought sprang to life — “about Marie! What does she want to attend 
the meeting for, anyhow? It will be no place for her.” 

“I want her to go, Van. I want her to see how much the people think 
of you when it’s all over. It will be an encouragement, dear, for her to 
speak. Don’t you understand?” 

/My dear Dorothy,” he said, with undisguised skepticism in his voice; 
“if one honest citizen of Red Hill shakes my hand after I’m through, I’ll 
be in the Seventh Heaven of delight. But if Marie won’t speak out to 
a lover such as Storey is ; if she won’t listen to your advice, the sight of 

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my self-inflicted torture isn’t going to move her — not a blessed inch. I’m 
sure of that !” and he shook his head with an air of unalterable conviction. 

“Marie,” the little woman replied gently, “is following in your foot- 
steps all the way. Whatever you do, dear, in her eyes is right. And 
she’s trying — Oh ! so hard, to do the right thing herself. When she sees 
and understands your victory tonight, she too, will take the step.” 

“And when she sees me turning tail in full retreat, she’ll think she 
ought to profit by that, too !” For a time he continued staring moodily 
at the wall. Ah ! if she, or Storey, or Bishop, or Marie, knew as he did, 
what a tragic night this one was destined now to be, how marvelously 
their thoughts would change. If Storey or Marie, with all of their 
presentiments could only guess the truth — . 

“If it wasn’t for you, sweetheart,” he said finally, “this disclosure 
wouldn’t seem so bad ; but I feel — I almost grow faint hearted when — ” 

“My dear, dear boy !” she interrupted, with that sweet, that inexpressi- 
ble smile that sanctified the spoken words ; “I’ll be here waiting — Oh ! 
so happy, when you come. To know that you have thrown the burden 
off ; that you are standing honestly before the world, with your worth 
and failings understood by all ; to know that henceforth you will be esti- 
mated by what you really are, and not by what you may for a time appear 
to be ; to know that no exposures yet to come, can take away a single friend, 
or alter the serenity of our lives — in all of this, my love, I shall rejoice 
with you, and enjoy the blessedness and comfort your bravery will bring. 
No, no, my dearie! you mustn’t falter now. You must be courageous — 
and remember, you’re doing this for me — and for the little ones. Isn’t 
that a splendid reason, dear?” 

For answer he folded her to his breast — held her while the minutes flew ; 
while conflicting passions, surging across his brain, vacillated between 
the spectral memories of an unrecoverable past and ominous anticipations 
of the coming night. The encircling arms pressed tighter — still tighter, 
as if, inspired by the sublimity of a character so divine, he would drink 
to the full its chastening, fear dispelling influence, and thereby fortify 
himself against a trepidation that might, at the most inopportune of 
moments, venture to assert itself. 

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And then, the woman, fearful lest the very intensity of his emotion 
induce a reaction disastrous to his plans, gently but firmly disengaged 
herself, implanted a final kiss upon the crown of luxuriant and untrimmed 
hair, and moved toward the door. Once there, she turned and spoke : 

“Dearie, you know that dinner is still waiting. Surely you are not 
going to do as Mr. Storey did, and compel me to eat alone !” 

“Sweetheart,” he answered, starting to arise, “I couldn’t swallow a 
smell right now. Isn’t Davey there?” 

“He has already eaten and gone. You know, since you’re not working 
today, he has his hands full with the men.” 

“What a fellow !” he commented. “Working all day, and mixing 
studies with songs and prayers for the best part of the night. I think, 
dearest” — picking up his hat — “I’ll take a run over to Mother Grote’s 
myself. She seems to be in line for callers today,” and with a forced but 
merry whistle he left the house and started westward up the road. 

Two years before, an industrious young German from the province of 
Alsace-Lorraine had arrived at Red Hill, and was given employment on 
Anholt’s farm. At the end of a year he had invested his accumulated 
wages, together with the few dollars left him on his arrival, in a ten acre 
piece of land adjoining his employer’s place. A short time later he had 
sent to Germany for his mother, who immediately came on and joined him. 
For lack of funds, his father — an invalid and very poor — was left for 
the time being with other relatives at home. Two days after his mother, 
who soon became known as Mother Grote, had been welcomed to his 
hastily constructed shack, and while hunting on the prairie to the south- 
west of the town, the young German was mortally wounded by the acci- 
dental discharge of his gun, and died within the week. The mort- 
gage hanging over his property prevented the raising of more than suf- 
ficient money on it to defray the funeral expenses and cancel a few of 
the obligations contracted by the dead man in his preparations for the 
season’s work. Farm labor was expensive and scarce, and Anholt, like 
the surrounding farmers, experienced difficulty in securing helpers enough 
for his own fields ; the result being that the old woman, unable either to 
realize anything for herself from the sale of the property, or to secure the 

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necessary assistance in cultivating it, was left, an utter stranger, penniless, 
friendless and alone, in a country whose very language she was unable 
to speak or understand. Here, obviously, was a case after Anholt’s own 
heart. He had made a pensioner of her; appointed Marie and Davey — 
both of whom spoke German — as his agents, and undertook to provide 
the means for her return to Germany when early spring arrived. During 
the winter she had suffered a severe attack of rheumatism, and this, 
together with a complication of other maladies incident to old age, had 
involved the expenditure of no small portion both of Marie’s and 
Davey ’s time in attending to her wants. Recently a decided improve- 
ment in her condition had been noticeable, and strong hopes were enter- 
tained of her speedy recovery to a point where she could safely undertake 
the journey home. She had gradually picked up a little English; an 
acquisition which enabled Anholt, as well as Storey and Bishop, to assist 
in the work which Marie and Davey had so devotedly carried on. 

It was with the hope of casting a little additional sunshine into the life 
of this unfortunate old soul, that Anholt, now endeavoring to forget his 
own distress, directed his footsteps to her door. 


| 29G ] 


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CHAPTER VII. 

Two memorable nights,, one preceding, one following Red Hill’s first 
municipal election day, have left their indelible imprint on the pages 
of that town’s history. And so long as authentic records stand; so long 
as traditionary lore hovers on wintry eves around the family hearth; so 
long as women whisper about imperial love, or innocence finds refuge 
in the sunshine of sweet infant eyes; so long as virtue, wavering before 
deep passion’s onslaught, seeks in the lesson of some unfortunate’s frailty 
protection for itself ; so long as the flower of chivalry continues in its 
bloom, and right and wrong, with their inevitable rewards and punish- 
ments are taught to growing youth — so long will the incidents of those 
April nights inspire both truthful narrative and legendary tale. 

Scarce had the first of the eventful hours — hours destined ere their 
close to furnish such amazing revelations to Red Hill — followed in the 
wake of day, when, as if by general understanding, every store and place 
of business in the place was closed, while the clerks and owners, succumb- 
ing to the tide of curiosity sweeping across the place, added their numbers 
to the procession headed in the direction of All Men’s Church ; a proces- 
sion of men, women, and some few children, all influenced by the one 
overmastering, consuming desire to see and hear this man whose attitude 
was so entirely and outrageously at variance with what, as they had so 
earnestly contended, they had every right and reason to expect. 

At the church itself, and long before the clock’s hands pointed to the 
hour of eight, a remarkable scene, the like of which has never been dupli- 
cated in that town, met the eyes of such late comers as disdained to hasten 
with the common herd, lest their self-respect and dignity suffer loss; a 
scene that to this day is reproduced in wood cuts displayed on walls of 
homes and offices in that thriving little city of the west. The building 
was packed with an excited, talkative multitude. Benches from the porch 
had been hastily placed within the aisles and as quickly filled with the more 
aggressive of the impatient crowd. Around the sides of the room, with 
feet resting on the seats, and hands clutched tightly to the lamp brackets 

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overhead, a dozen of the younger and most athletic of the gathered popu- 
lace were ranged. On the platform — as yet unoccupied by either the 
expected speaker or any of the citizens — a number of ordinary chairs 
were set, while near its center was placed a stand, holding some oddly 
shaped object, hidden beneath the folds of a cloth of sombre black, rivet- 
ing the gaze of the people present, and supplying a further incentive to 
rash conjecturing and the queerest kind of prophesies. 

Outside, the crowd was working itself into an uncomfortable frame of 
mind, while the church entrance was blocked by an increasing, surging 
mob, urged on in its endeavors to advance by the still less fortunate and 
equally disappointed ones behind. The windows, you will recall, were 
set high in the wall, their sills being on a level with the porch roof, and 
effectually preventing the throng of late arrivals from acquiring either 
by sight or hearing any knowledge of what transpired within. That is, 
all but the most daring of the lot, for the roof itself was a fairly satis- 
factory, if dangerous resting place for such as were brave enough to 
climb the posts and hang tenaciously to the window frames. This, there- 
fore, will account for the fifty or more contented faces peering down 
upon a surprised and apprehensive audience — an audience which, despite 
its efforts, was unable to discern the slightest resemblance between the 
visages above and its mental picture of the seraphim who were supposed 
habitually to linger there when anything was going on inside. 

Here then, as the hour of eight drew nigh, was an edifice crowded to 
a suffocating point, while a persistent, shoving horde blockaded the only 
means of exit save a small door in the rear, with another lot of excitement 
seekers preventing, to their great and imminent peril, the ingress of 
refreshing and revitalizing air through the windows which they filled. 
The yard and porch held their full quota of unlucky and speculating 
townsmen, presenting an appearance so clearly indicative of their mental 
state, that had any observing and uninformed stranger chanced to pass 
that way, he would immediately have assumed some guessing contest of 
extraordinary importance to be under way. 

In other words, Red Hill and its immediate vicinity, so far as the adult 
population was concerned — children being at times the ablest kind of 

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nurses — was mustered here at All Men’s Church, wondering, hoping, 
praying, fearing, guessing, prophesying, cursing, prepared for the worst, 
trusting for the best, and making a tremendous how-dy-do over a situa- 
tion which, when simmered down, meant simply that a neighbor, unwill- 
ing to enter public life, deemed it advisable to tell them why. After all, 
what trivial things will turn wise mortals into fools ! 

However, moralization must be discarded if we are to record in our 
allotted space the happenings of this first of two well remembered nights ; 
a necessity compelling our undivided attention for the present to the 
situation as it developed within the church. It is questionable whether 
the masculine element of the audience outnumbered that of the fair sex 
by so much as a baker’s dozen, while in their ability to maintain an inces- 
sant volley of exclamations, neighborhood gossip, and critical 'mental and 
verbal appraisements of their acquaintances’ wearing apparel, they were 
hopelessly outclassed. The men in fact, were typical specimens of that 
sturdy, honest, persevering and unostentatious manhood which in all 
lands and ages has been the force transforming the wilderness into fertile 
fields, and the barren waste into a decent habitat for those who follow 
on behind. Hard muscled, sun browned, clean cut individuals every one ; 
many fresh from outlying farms, and all, whether literal residents of 
the new town proper or not, loyal to its interests, and uncompromising in 
their opposition to everything endangering its honorable and consistent 
growth. 

Near the left hand aisle, looking from the platform, and well back 
toward the entrance, sat Marie, accompanied by the minister and Bishop — 
the latter having contented himself with this unsatisfactory position in 
deference to Anholt’s expressed wish to be left alone in carrying out his 
mysterious program ; a program for which he said he would provide the 
necessary characters as the need arose. 

Among others in the audience were the Hawkins brothers, employees 
of the M. & B. F. Railroad; Jake Stahl, liveryman and unopposed candi- 
date for the office of City Treasurer ; Joe Fisher, store keeper and post- 
master; Ben Wildey, who was studying law under Bishop, and who in 
the expectation of being elected City Counsel, had arranged for a special 

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examination at Bismarck, admitting him to practice; Reese Goodwin, 
owner and editor of the Torch and Trumpet; Tom Faraway, leading 
blacksmith of the town and one of Anholt’s staunchest friends, and David 
Eastman, who alone, of all present, viewed matters with a placid, confi- 
dent air, as provoking to Storey, who had a clear view of the young man’s 
profile, as it was amusing to Bishop, who had long since surrendered 
himself to the inevitable, in whatever shape it might appear. 

With the arrival of the crucial hour a marked subsidence in the prev- 
iously unceasing hum and buzz of conversation became discernible, while 
with each recurrent scuffle among the closely wedged and importunate 
persons obstructing the entrance, every head in the assemblage turned in 
unison, hoping to catch sight of Anholt’s face emerging through the 
group. Two — three — five minutes passed, and then as impatience began 
manifesting itself in subdued mutterings and restlessness, especially ob- 
servable among the female contingent, the practically unnoticed door 
to the right of the platform opened, giving admission to a solitary person, 
who, after closing it quickly and securely, wended his way briskly through 
the adjacent seats and ascending the steps, stood calmly and quietly facing 
those whom he had called about him. Suddenly a loud “Hurrah !” 
started by some lusty lunged youth seated in the rear, was taken up and 
vociferously helped along by each and every man within the room, while 
the women, to most of whom gloves were a useless impediment, clapped 
vigorously with their hands, the meanwhile beaming delightedly around, 
now that the performance was getting under way. As for the subject of 
this ovation, he appeared neither dissatisfied nor pleased, but with an 
air of the utmost unconcern waited patiently for the enthusiastic display 
of confidence and good will to wear itself away. 

His attire was anything but conventional — at least so Easteners would 
have deemed it, considering the purpose of his being there. A cheap, 
dark suit; soft flannel shirt, with a plain black four-in-hand tied loosely 
under the low turned collar; no vest; no adornments of any kind in the 
jewelry line; nothing but the comfortable, unpretentious garb known to 
every traveler in the west. The long hair was carefully brushed ; the beard, 
to those well forward in the room, showed traces — very slight — of the 

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recent use of shears; the face was tanned; the body agile, well set and 
strong. All in all, just such a person as conservative observers would 
expect to follow conviction, regardless of where it led. 

As quiet gradually ensued, he moved closer to the mysterious, draped 
object on the stand, raised one hand as if to prevent a repetition of the 
uproar, and in clear, even tones spoke briefly to the expectant crowd : 

“My friends, I trust you will remain patient for just five minutes more. 
Some parties are expected on the Junction train, one of whom will address 
you before I do. As the train is in they should be here soon.” 

Hardly were the last words uttered when a violent commotion at the 
main entrance caused the audience to turn its eyes once more that way. 
Some persons, undoubtedly the ones to whom the speaker had referred, 
were endeavoring to force a passage through the compact mass of human- 
ity holding possession of the spot. 

“Make way there, please gentlemen !” shouted Anholt, adding, as one 
well recognized figure heaving into sight, paused and looked doubtfully 
around ; “This way, sir ! Come right down the aisle ! I guess you can 
manage it!” 

The one addressed, a short, thin, black moustached individual, with 
eye glasses resting upon a prominent and hook shaped nose, began thread- 
ing his way toward the platform; a feat under the circumstances hardly 
conducive either to the maintenance of an unruffled temper or of an impres- 
sive dignity. As he approached Anholt a murmur of astonishment, aris- 
ing from the gathering and accompanied by numerous hisses from various 
parts of the hall, disclosed the fact that he not only was known to a 
majority of those present but that his popularity was hardly on the rise. 
On reaching the steps leading to the stage he hesitated and gazed inquir- 
ingly at Anholt. The latter, answering the look in words distinctly 
audible to all, said : 

“Come right up, Mr. Littleton! I understood you would come. 
Where,” he continued, as the Junction lawyer neared him, “are your 
companions — your eastern clients, eh?” 

Mr. Littleton halted abruptly, his shifty eyes peering through the 
gold rimmed glasses with a glance in which suspicion and craftiness 

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played equal parts. When he replied his voice was very low, as if indeed, 
he wanted none but Anholt to hear his words. 

“How is that? I don’t seem to understand! You — ” 

“Oh, fiddle sticks, sir!” came the interrupting retort; “they’re both 
here, ready to do their dirty worst. Where is Jake Stahl?” turning to the 
audience. “Here Jake!” as the one called for stood up; “there are two 
men outside somewhere, whom I want to see on this platform. Will you 
be good enough to get them here? — by force if necessary! The name 
of one is Dublediehl — S. Landseer Dublediehl. The other is Mr. Samuel 
Withers. Will you do that, Jake?” 

“I reckon I will, since you say so ! I’ll bring them to the side door !” 
answered the willing but wondering liveryman. Grabbing the key thrown 
him by Anholt, he started on his errand with a manner sufficiently rough 
shod to secure him a comparatively easy passage. 

As for the assembled Red Hillians, who had viewed the singular devel- 
opment with astonished, blinking eyes, their cup of joy approached already 
the running over stage. Never had they experienced such pleasurable 
suspense; never had they realized the delirious exultation which attend- 
ance at a political gathering can produce ; never had their hearts so 
fluttered, or their ears been so alert, or their tongues so paralyzed as at 
this moment when the lawyer Littleton, having called out to Jake Stahl 
that the gentlemen would be there anyhow, stepped forward to speak to 
them. 

“These-ah gentlemen,” he ventured, “are clients of mine and-ah your 
good friends. The fact is, I-ah had expected, so to speak, to present 
you with-ah grave evidence on a matter which bears, as it were, on your-ah 
elections tomorrow. But-ah this wonderful outpouring has upset — I-ah 
— that is, in a way — ” 

“It needn’t to,” came the prompt assurance from Anholt, “and when 
you talk, talk out ! You were told you would be given an opportunity to 
say your say. But bring your clients on first. That’s what these seats 
are for. I think,” he added, his voice still raised, “they’re standing inside 
the door there now. Suppose you invite them up !” 

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Still again every eye was directed to the entrance. Were they — yes, 
unquestionably, he was right. Two strangers, distinguishable in the sea 
of well known faces hedged about them, were watching with uncertain, 
irresolute glance the proceedings on the platform, doubtful whether to 
advance, withdraw or remain, uncomfortable, where they were — the 
cynosure of inquisitive and scrutinizing looks. No need to describe them, 
either one. Too frequently have their personalities impressed themselves 
upon our minds. There they were, their portentous presence arousing in 
their intended victim’s mind passions long dormant and restrained, 
but now, if that strange glitter in his eyes was indicative of anything, 
destined to provoke a line of action whose denouement would be ripe 
with tragedy and surprise. 

Of all the incredible things that somehow happen in this world, 
what more astounding, more inexplicable than this — the reentrance 
of Dublediehl and Withers into the range of Anholt’s life at a time, 
and place, and under conditions such as these? 


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CHAPTER VIII. 

Five minutes passed. Withers and Dublediehl, in response to the 
beckoning finger of Littleton had successfully negotiated the passage 
leading to the platform, on which, ignoring the presence of Anholt, 
they now stood* consulting in subdued voices with the attorney, and 
oblivious both to the impressive stillness pervading the assemblage 
and the enigmatical smile with which the chief actor in the evening’s 
proceedings followed their every move. 

Time apparently, had wrought but little change in either. Perhaps 
the hair of Withers was a trifle whiter — its sparseness a little more 
observable. Perhaps, too, the face of Dublediehl was more rotund, 
more indicative of the sensualist, but otherwise they looked as when 
we saw them last — prosperous, well groomed and cynical. 

One curious incident had, for the moment, distracted Anholt’s atten- 
tion from the new arrivals. As they stepped upon the stage, a sound, 
like a cry half stifled, had issued from some place in the rear of the 
hall, followed almost immediately by a slight stir in the corner where 
Marie, Storey and Bishop sat. Then, ere his eyes had turned away, 
these three — his friends — arose and moved quickly toward and out 
through the crowd of spectators jammed around the door. Except for 
those in close proximity to the scene not twenty persons in the audi- 
ence had observed their exit nor given attention to the cry. To Anholt 
alone had the peculiar occurrence appealed as deserving of more than 
passing notice. Turning his attention again to Littleton, whose plans 
seemed likely to become still more disarranged, he requested that 
gentleman and his companions to seat themselves, adding as they com- 
plied : 

“You’ll have your opening in just a minute more.” Glancing over 
the assemblage until his eyes again caught sight of Stahl, who had 
managed to find another seat, he addressed that gentleman for the 
second time: “I’m sorry, Jake, to bother you again, but if you and 

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Tom Faraway over there will step up here, you’ll oblige me greatly. 
And if,” he continued, his glance meanwhile searching around the 
room, “if Dr. O’Grady is present, will he kindly hold himself in readi- 
ness for a — a professional call ? Ah ! thank you, Doctor,” as the one 
inquired for stood up. “Now boys!” — to Stahl and Faraway, who had 
reached the platform — “do you mind taking seats right there behind 
those gentlemen,” indicating Withers and Dublediehl, with a nod. 
“That’s it! Thanks!” 

Were ever individuals so thoroughly non-plussed as those now 
seated on the stage, or a gathering of mortals so entirely puzzled and 
amazed as was this one congregated here in All Men’s Church tonight? 

With the preliminaries completed to his satisfaction, Anholt walked 
to the platform’s front, his eyes swept over the hundreds of familiar, 
waiting faces, and then in a silence so intense that the ticking of 
watches could be heard, he spoke : 

“My friends, in tendering me the highest official position in Red 
Hill, you have honored me greatly; far more than any words of mine 
can tell. I have declined the honor for reasons which appear to me 
entirely adequate and right. But I appreciate that reasons, however 
good, unless disclosed to you, must place me in the unenviable position 
of appearing to be not alone an ingrate, but a defaulter in civic obli- 
gations and moral duty; as a useless citizen whose selfish character 
renders him an unfit associate for any honest townsman. Because of 
this I invited you here tonight. Because of this I proposed as a 
matter of justice to us both to risk the severance of friendship’s ties — 
ties which for over two years past have been cherished as among the 
dearest possessions of my life. Because of this I intended tearing the 
mask from off my past, leaving you to determine, in the face of such 
evidence as I should give, the question of my fitness to hold official 
position in your midst. Today I learned that other men in possession 
of the facts, have taken it upon themselves to enlighten you concern- 
ing me. I learned that an attorney at Beaver Junction had been 
employed by them to present the evidence which they have so labo- 


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riously amassed, bearing on my past career. I learned that he, per- 
haps with a due appreciation of the reception likely to be accorded 
him were these charges supported by nothing more than his state- 
ment based upon the letters from his clients, had insisted on their 
being here in person ; told them probably, how grateful you would be, 
and assured them of the high regard in which, owing to such disin- 
terested action on their part, they would be held by Red Hill’s citi- 
zens ; convinced them, doubtless, that as loyal Americans and Christ- 
ian gentlemen, no personal inconvenience should be permitted to 
operate against their assisting in ridding this city of my contaminating 
presence. Well, these gentlemen are here. They shall have the privi- 
lege now, of speaking through their willing and well compensated 
tool. My friends, Mr. Littleton, of Beaver Junction! Grant him, I 
beg of you, an opportunity to earn his pay.” 

Anholt, done speaking, stepped back and bowed almost imperceptibly 
to the lawyer. For a minute the stillness was much like that of death. 
Then followed a low murmur, gradually increasing in volume until it 
resembled the buzz of voices prevalent before the speaker came. 
Suddenly a voice — “Go on pardner, tell us yourself !” and another — 
“You’re good enough for us, Anholt!” and still another — “Throw the 
Junction coyote out! Hurrah for Red Hill! Hurrah for Anholt! 
Hurrah ! Hurrah !” The shout was taken up with a spontaneity and 
vigor causing the very overhanging beams to shake, and bringing to 
the minds of Littleton and his companions with irresistible force, a 
full realization of the delicate, if not indeed perilous ground on which 
they had presumed to tread. Anholt, touched, though he was, with 
this manifestation of loyalty on the part of his sturdy compatriots, felt 
entirely too anxious to have done with the coming disagreeable ordeal 
to encourage a prolongation of the outburst. Instead, he walked again 
to the front of the stage, raised his left hand in entreaty for quiet, and 
motioned with his right for Littleton to advance and have his say; 
the last thing in the world at that particular moment the Beaver 
Junction attorney cared about doing, and the only thing under the 
circumstances it was possible for him to do. Consequently, making of 

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necessity a virtue, he leaned over to Dublediehl, spoke a few short 
words to him, stood up, placed a bundle of papers on his chair, but- 
toned his dignity-enhancing Prince Albert with nervous fingers, and, 
as the noise subsided, moved forward, apparently determined to make, 
as Anholt had suggested, a heroic effort to justify his fee. It was 
inevitable that the Red Hill spirit, ever prepared to rise in arms at 
the slightest provocation attributable to Beaver Junction enterprise, 
should strain at its leashes, now that the full import of the lawyer’s 
intentions dawned upon the understanding of the assembled crowd, 
and if his expected accusatory remarks, directly aimed at their 
respected townsman, but indirectly reflecting on them all, should go 
unchallenged until he had quite finished, it would be entirely due to 
their regard for the wishes of Anholt as evidenced by his present atti- 
tude, rather than because of any Chesterfieldian tendencies operating 
in Littleton’s behalf. So far as the latter was concerned, it is con- 
ceivable that his mind was in a state infinitely more perturbed than 
that of the man whose record, he expected to prove, would disqualify 
him in the opinion of Red Hill from holding any position either of 
honor or of trust. In truth, his plans were sadly in disarray, while 
his projected coup assumed more and more the general outlines of a 
boomerang. He had designed a master stroke ; one that would 
endear him to every resident of the new municipality, and incidently 
insure his acquiring a goodly portion of its legal work. Yes, on this, 
election eve, he would invite the leading citizens to a conference in All 
Men’s Church — since the town possessed no other place available for 
the meeting — and there, in confidential session, he would aid in avert- 
ing by his disclosures, the awful, threatening calamity. Thus he 
would wipe away old scores, and phoenix-like rise with re-established 
credit from the ashes, not of his own, but of another’s blackened and 
destroyed reputation. Like a guardian angel he would appear to the 
people of Red Hill, rescuing them from the consequences of their 
own impetuous folly and ignorance. He would present his clients — 
the men whom, through his indefatigable efforts he had induced to 
come so far — with their testimony and corroborative documents. He 

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would do all of this at the supreme, the psychological hour, returning 
afterward with these same clients to Beaver Junction, and there 
await his substantial, acceptable and deserved reward. Thus he had 
planned, and now, alas ! his plans had run amuck. A valid reason — 
was it not? why he should present his charges in the most impartial 
way, and leave it to the Easterners to fire the heavy guns. Such was 
the process of mental argument inducing the following speech : 

“Ladies and Gentlemen ! I think I must — ah tell you that my clients 
and — ah myself also, are here from, as I may term it, a sense of duty, and 
— ah in your behalf. It is to me a painful occasion when I am compelled to 
speak disparagingly of anyone ; especially, let me say, of any resident of — 
ah this very delightful and — ah promising city.” (Cries of “Taffy !” “Cut 
it out!” Get down to business!”) “If you will permit me to — ah explain, 
you will agree with me, I am sure, that — ah my clients deserve great praise 
for their unselfish efforts to save you from a — ah very grave mistake.” 
(Cries of “Sit down!” “Hurry up!”) “These honorable gentlemen, I 
would explain, learned in a — a most accidental way that — ah your Mr. 
Anholt was seeking your honest votes as candidate for the — ah very exalted 

position of Mayor of .” (Voice, “It’s a damned lie, he didn’t.”) — 

“as I repeat, the Mayor of this honest community, and having 
heard — having knowledge of — ah very serious offenses alleged to have 
been committed by him, deemed it their duty as loyal citizens of 
this — ah great and glorious Republic to — ah, as it were, lay the matter 
before the proper officials. These honorable gentlemen, therefore, 
wrote — I — ah should say Mr. Dublediehl wrote to our popular and very 
able prosecuting attorney, who did me the very great honor of — ah placing 
the case in my hands to investigate. Feeling so deeply interested in — ah 
your welfare, as I may say, I answered the gentleman and was shocked — 
perhaps I — ah should say astounded, at the mass of information submitted 

me. At his request I undertook the most unpleasant task of (Voice, 

“What’d you soak ’em for, Cal?”) — “of assisting these gentlemen in their 
— ah very unselfish work. I — ah have here the evidence supporting these 

very grave charges, and under the direction of my honorable clients I ah 

will, with your permission, present it.” (Cries of “What are they?” 

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“Read your proof!”) “I will, gentlemen — and ladies, in a minute. I 
want to — ah state, that feeling the very great responsibility ' I 
took upon myself in acquainting you with your, as I might say, danger, 
I managed to — ah induce these gentlemen to come, at their very great 
cost and inconvenience, to our wonderful, our progressive country, 
to — ah aid us, as it were, in this very unpleasant duty.” (Cries of 
“Who is ‘us’?” and “What are the charges?”) “I — ah, perhaps I had 
better read them now. They are, you must remember, very carefully 

prepared and ” (Voice, “Read ’em, or shut up !”) — a final interruption 

causing the self-constituted trustee of Red Hill’s “political morality” to 
suddenly reach to an inner pocket of that carefully treasured coat and 
extract therefrom a folded, typewritten sheet, which he proceeded to read 
to the audience without further ado. As Davey declared afterward, “there 
was no use talking, Mr. Littleton was getting awfully mixed up,” and it 
must, indeed, have been a welcome relief to that perplexed individual to be 
able to read now from the paper in his hands, instead of being obliged to 
rely on a mind so radically out of gear. He read as follows : 

“We, the undersigned, residents of the city, county and state of 
New York, United States of America, in obedience to the dictates of 
our conscience and with a full sense of the obligations owing by one 
citizen of this Republic to his fellow citizens, wherever they may be, 
and with the earnest desire to assist, so far as lies within our power, 
in promoting the welfare, both moral and material, of the newly incor- 
porated city of Red Hill, North Dakota, and with a knowledge and 
appreciation of the danger to which that city is exposed by the candi- 
dacy of Anson Van Anholt for the office of Mayor, do hereby, in the 
interest of civic morality, especially as it pertains to the aforesaid 
new municipality of Red Hill, and in order that its citizens may be 
thoroughly informed as to the character of the said Anson Van 
Anholt, declare the following charges to be accurate, unprejudiced, 
and based upon reliable documentary evidence, a portion of which is 
herewith submitted, and all of which is available for inspection by any 
properly accredited agent of Red Hill. We charge as follows : 

1. That Anson Van Anholt was an inmate of the Indiana State 
Industrial School for Boys, being committed there after con- 
viction on the charge of forgery. 

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2 . That he was later confined, after due legal process in the Central 

Insane Asylum of Illinois. 

3. That he is a graduate of the New York State Reformatory, to 

which institution he was sentenced after pleading guilty to 

the charge of larceny. 

4. That he is a promoter of fraudulent companies. 

5. That he is a bankrupt. 

6. That he is a gambler. 

7. That he is a fugitive from justice. 

The accompanying affidavits, papers, and duplicate records, are 
offered in support of the above charges. 

(Signed) Samuel Withers, 

Witness: S. Landseer Dublediehl. 

Isaac Cone. 

“Now gentlemen — and ladies,” continued Littleton, folding the 
inculpatory paper, “I — ah will, with your permission, read the proofs 
which my honorable clients have so-ah, let me say, so unselfishly 
gathered for your benefit.” 

We compared the stillness a short time back to that of death. This 
comparison should have been reserved for the present moment. No 
other term can adequately express the unnatural, absolute, awful 
silence following the speaker’s words. Men and women sat like stat- 
ues — immovable, bewildered, dazed. None saw the accuser; all eyes 
were focused on the one accused. He alone seemed satisfied — posi- 
tive of his ground. Dublediehl and Withers had grown more appre- 
hensive as their representative talked. Where was the exultation, 
where the joy, where that delicious quivering of the nerves signalizing the 
approach of a long anticipated victory? Why that subtle, overwhelming 
sense of dread, intruding its phantasmal presence like some hideous pall 
depriving one of light? Where were the hisses, the invectives, the threats 
that were to have been showered on Anholt — the congratulations, thanks, 
and approving glances for themselves ? Where the cowering, whining and 
exposed creature, slinking with averted countenance through the crowd? 
where the boasted influence of Littleton — his powerful, convincing denun- 
ciation of this brazen renegade ? Why, as he stopped to select the incrimi- 
nating documents from among the papers on his chair, did not some- 

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body speak — say something, to relieve the fearful tension? Then, a 
slight movement at the door, and Withers looking up, started and 
dropped his cane. What necromantic happening was this, which 
brought the Rev. Melville Storey and — Oh ! most inconceivable of 
things — the gambler Bishop upon the scene? And now, as he would 
seek enlightenment from the one at whose solicitation he had come 
so far, what meant that fellow back there standing up, and why that 
vulgar, unexpected question hurled across the room? 

“What in Hell do we want with any proof? Sit down, you Beaver 
Junction dog! Git after him, Anholt!” and from another, “Give the 
durn shyster fits, pardner!” and from Joe Fisher, ”1 tell you Anholt, 
if you don’t do somethin’ to him purty quick, sure’s shootin’ I’ll do 
it myself!” and from others, “Answer him, Anholt!” “Put them papers 
up!” “Lynch the liar!” “Kick ’em all out!” “Talk up, Anholt!” and 
so it went. Pandemonium reigned, and threats and jeers and hisses 
transformed the house of worship into a bedlam of enraged and shout- 
ing Red Hillians, less incensed perhaps, over the charges aimed at 
Anholt, than at the incredible audacity of this insolent Junction pup. 
That was the acme of criminal achievement; the one unpardonable, 
unforgetable offense. Now Anholt, alive to the danger, walked to- 
ward them, nodding Littleton to his seat. Both hands were raised — 
kept there — aloft, until calm succeeded tempest ; until the heavy 
breathing ceased again, and passions fell and the people waited for his 
words. No need for Littleton to read the proof. Anholt’s hour had come. 
Freedom was waiting for his call. It came at last, in tones so low, yet so 
distinct and clear that not a syllable was missed by those who listened to 
him speak. 

“My friends, you ask my answer. You shall have it. My only 
request is, that you hear me patiently to the end. Five and thirty 
years ago a male child was born. The parents were honest — poor. While 
yet a boy — eight years of age, he lost his father — by death. The 
family was left penniless. The mother struggled as a seamstress to 
raise and educate her children. At twelve years of age the boy quit 
school, jumped into the breach, sold newspapers, worked here and 

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there, and did his best to help lighten his mother’s load. Early man- 
hood came, finding him the family’s sole support. He was honest, 
ambitious, respected. Offered a lucrative position in a larger city he 
accepted, grew in favor with his employers, and promised to become 
an important factor in their business. But — the unlucky associations 
came. He was picking for sharpers ; became their innocent tool, and 
was left to hold the bag. Guiltless as any man or woman in this 
house, he was convicted. His spotless record secured him clemency. 
He was sentenced, despite his age, to a state industrial school for boys. 
While there he was pardoned and placed on the pay roll as one of the 
brother officers of the school. A change of administration came. New 
employees were engaged and he sought employment in the outside world. 
Well, society wouldn’t have him. Wouldn’t be defiled by his presence. 
He might be given work but — the other employees would object. No, he 
wasn’t wanted anywhere, at anything, by anybody. The spirit revolted. 
Very well! he would deserve what society was determined to give him. 
He clutched it — society — by the throat. It, in turn, with fiendish inge- 
nuity, called him mad — insane, and in self protection placed him behind 
asylum doors. He had always been a student — was a student here — now 
and then killed time by writing an article for some local sheet. They 
were accepted — paid for — published. He believed he had found a voca- 
tion in which he would find immunity from the past. He made application 
for release, was examined, and freed. Fortune favored him — tempo- 
rarily. He possessed a speculative instinct — followed it in addition to 
his literary work, and prospered. Then, a good woman came on the 
scene. The miracle occurred and she was his. With her and his quickly 
acquired fortune he would seek the center of all things; would invade 
Wall Street — the David challenging Goliath. This time the miracle didn’t 
work. David fell in time, and with him fortune, then comforts, then 
pride; all save the love and confidence of his wife. The night grew 
darker ; sickness came, and with it hunger — terrible, sickening want. Then 
winter, and all the word implies in the city without a heart. No fire, 
no medicine, no food. Death lurking at the door and — the pale, pathetic 
and ever trusting countenance of the wife; the little, suffering, patient 

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woman who had never yet complained. Employment? — where were his 
credentials? Resort to the pen? — what! with mind in turmoil such as 
his? Snow shoveling? — where the shovel; where the strength, or food 
wherewith to get it? The pawnshop? — long since taken advantage of 
to the limit of their possessions. Friends? — never! Begging? — for 
her sake, yes ! Crime? — yea, if need be to preserve her life. The oppor- 
tunity came. The man succumbed. The wife was saved. Again he 
stood before a court; from there to the State Reformatory of New York. 
Free in less than a single year, he started out anew. His guide-star was 
his wife. But he had learned long since to fear society — its taunts and 
jeers. Therefore he would forever cover up the past. Men should 
never see the abscess in his heart. But men — some of them, you know, 
have long and very curious noses. Some love to hide their own delin- 
quencies by baring those of other men. They revel in vituperation. A 
sand-bagged reputation at their feet is bliss; a ruined home — another 
man’s — the greatest desideratum of their lives. Such men as these 
barked and snapped continuously at this young man’s heels. They had 
ferreted out the truth. He knew it — they saw to that, and then played 
around him like a cat around a mouse. They saw that hints and innuen- 
does were spread around broadcast — loved to sit, and watch, and gloat 
as blows fell here and there upon the helpless, unprotected man. Did 
he make a friend — theirs to see that he became an enemy instead. Did 
he secure the confidence of an honest man — theirs to utter but a word 
and faith turned to distrust. Despite all this, the man — thank God! 
preserved his conscience clean. He had his wife, you understand, and 
because of that retained the strength to grin and bear. Stabbed in the 
back, he fell to rise again — kept on fighting, suffering, daily moving closer 
to his goal. He came west — back to nature ; purchased a farm, and in 
time paid off his debts. Surely now he must be on the road to peace. 
Acknowledging now, once and for all, this man to be myself, three 
charges just presented you, stand out entirely proved. 


Inmate of Industrial School Yes. 

Patient in Insane Asylum Yes. 

Graduate of a Reformatory Yes. 

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Fradulent companies? Well, there was a company organized by me. 
Men invested on my say so. One of the kind of creatures I tell you 
of, scenting my success, walked in, instilled his poison in each subscriber’s 
mind, cared not a rap about their loss, and chuckled at the great smash- 
up. Well, every man connected with it got his money back with interest. 
There’s a package, sealed, stowed away over in Joe Fisher’s safe. He’s 
authorized to open it. He’ll find this company’s incorporation papers 
there. He’ll find each subscriber’s address and name, and what’s more 
to the point just now, he’ll find a letter from each one — or rather, all but 
one — acquitting me of fraudulent intent, acknowledging they’ve made 
a little profit on the deal, and thanking me for what I’ve done. There’s 
another company that I helped to float. I’ll be glad to give its name to 
any man that asks. Fraudulent? Well, it paid last year some eighty- 
four per cent. This year the business is bigger than it ever was. Promoter 
of fraudulent companies? You know my farm — every one of you. 
Understand me now, I’ll give it free and clear to any person, I don’t care 
who is he, that names a crooked company I’ve ever been connected with. 
Bankrupt? Gambler? The offer holds good there. Let any man 
prove that I’ve been at any time in my career in bankruptcy proceedings — 
let him show that at any time for ten years past I’ve played a game of 
chance for gold, and the farm is his. Mr. Littleton claims to have the 
evidence. He’ll have a chance to submit it. Fugitive from justice? 
Where are the officers? I’m easily found. The presence of these — 
gentlemen here proves that. What is the charge — who the complainant? 
Show me that I’m wanted on any charge that hasn’t been faked up and 
you’ll hold title to one of the richest farms — size considered — in the 
state of North Dakota. 

“My friends, year in, year out, I’ve striven according to my lights, to 
make some reparation for the past; for acts committed when I learned 
that society disowned me. Time and again when I felt almost secure, 
one or more of these vile things in human shape that I spoke about, reared 
its ugly head, opened its venomous lips, and I had the fight to make again. 
I might have stood it longer, but there was a beloved wife, and — a babe — 
God given — innocent. With them I came out here, hoping, praying that 

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we might find some measure of content. Since that time you know what 
my life has been. Because you knew it you tendered me a priceless gift; 
priceless because of the confidence inspiring it. I refused it — you insisted. 
I decided then that you should know the whole, unappetizing truth. 
I invited you to meet me here, and then I found that all the curs were not 
yet dead. They were still hounding me — would be here — in at the death ; 
their protruding fangs showing at the sacrifice, prepared to do their 
devilish worst. Well, that suited me; they should be welcomed. They 
are here — have made their charges, and the answer is ‘up to you’. But 
my friends, before you act, I trust you’ll hear me out. I intend for the 
present to cast all charity, all pity, all sympathy to the winds. I shall, if 
you prefer to term it so, wallow in revenge. I propose to send the 
chickens home to roost. I’ll tear the cloak of rank hypocrisy from off 
these disinterested gentlemen from the East. For once — for these few 
minutes only — I hope to mete out vengeance to the fullest measure of my 
powers. I’ll compare accusers with accused. My friends, my fellow 
citizens, listen carefully, I pray you now to what I say, and Littleton,” 
he added, stepping back and addressing the Beaver Junction man, “these 
men are your clients, but you’re to keep your mouth shut, understand? 
until I’m through, and that” — turning on Withers and Dublediehl — 
“applies to you two men as well.” 

For a moment he stood there, motionless as a figure graved in stone ; 
except for that queer, undecipherable gleam within his eyes, expression- 
less as the Sphynx. His hands, half clenched, were hanging at his sides. 
His thoughts, to all appearances, were countless miles away. Faithfully 
had the audience complied with his request. Nothing, save now and 
then a cough, or a movement at some window where the footing was 
unsafe, served to discount the impressiveness of his words. Surprise, 
suspense, held them all enthralled. No past master of the stage directors' 
art could have designed a setting more eloquent of coming tragic things. 

Now the head of Anholt turns. His glance is fastened on the older 
man. His arm is slowly raised until the finger points directly at the 
wrinkled face. As slowly is it dropped again. The eyes are turned 
toward the audience. He speaks. 

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CHAPTER IX. 

“I said a moment since that I would cast all pity to the winds. I 
must retract that. It’s impossible for me to look on that old man” — 
turning to Withers — “without feeling something akin to sympathy, 
despite his having been, with one or two exceptions, the most impla- 
cable and bitter enemy Pve ever had. Fve lost more friends by reason 
of his machinations than through any other person on this earth. He 
never dropped a penny at my hands; never experienced the slightest 
injury because of me; nor has he ever stated, so far as I can learn, 
why he pursues me so relentlessly. It started when, on my release 
from prison, I was offered membership in an organization of which 
at one time he had been the head. From that time until the day I left 
the East, he tried to make my life a hell. He gave no reason, but dog- 
ged me persistently, savagely, and discredited me at every turn. I 
will say this, that when I left New York he ceased to harry me — that 
is, so far as I could tell. I will say further, that I believe he came 
here tonight because of arguments advanced by Mr. Littleton and one 
other man. Long years ago, my friends, this old man was possessed 
of a happy home, a loving wife, and an adored child — a daughter. He, 
a manufacturer of drugs and a successful business man, was a 
Christian — tender-hearted, kind and true. One day a poor devil came 
his way and asked for work ; acknowledged he had been a criminal and 
had just been freed from prison. This old gentleman employed him, 
trusted him, treated him practically as he would a son. One night 
the former convict disappeared, and with him not alone some twenty 
thousand dollars from his benefactor’s safe, but a greater, a priceless 
treasure — the daughter whom the parents idolized. From that day 
forward, no demon deep in hell excelled the outraged father in devis- 
ing tortures for sinners coming within his reach. He spent a fortune 
seeking for the miscreant and his child. The search was fruitless. 
Years passed, and then — one day a letter came — a letter from the way- 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINC I P L E ? 

ward girl. She plead for his forgiveness; said the scoundrel who had 
lured her off was dead ; said she had a baby, was sick, penniless — a hopeless 
invalid thrown upon the streets. She begged that he, for her child’s 
sake and not her own, assist her in her dire distress. He answered in 
brutal, merciless, unforgiving terms. Told her he would kick her 
from his threshold if she dared to show her face. In time his chosen 
helpmate died. She had urged unceasingly their daughter’s cause. 
He had been obdurate, inexorable. But with his wife’s death a soft- 
ening influence came. Loneliness brought horrors to his mind. The 
Divine Spirit of forgiveness began somehow to manifest itself — so far 
as the disowned and sinning daughter was concerned. He felt that he 
needed her — wanted her — would like to see this little grandson she 
had written him about. For the sake of his dead wife he would try 
hard to forgive ; would take the erring one to his arms again ; would 
strive to bring the little fellow up in righteous ways. Too late. All 
trace of them was lost. Another fortune went in efforts to discover 
them. This, too, without results. And so his life grew darker, his 
hairs whiter, his heart more bitter against all men who chanced to sin. 
He became a monomaniac in his aversion to any plan designed to work 
the reformation of a criminal. Such men were better dead — a thou- 
sand times, he claimed. Let one presume to cross his path, and he 
would assist in sending them straight to hell — the only fit place for 
them to dwell. All of this, you understand, will help to explain his 
attitude to me. One winter’s night, a little over five years ago, I ran 
across a young man lying on a New York street, bruised and bleeding 
from the effects of a policeman’s club. Before the officer who had 
gone to summon the patrol returned, I managed to get the unconscious 
fellow in a cab, and afterward saw that he received the proper kind 
of care. Undoubtedly a character of the streets, there was something 
about him that appealed to me. Something telling of good blood, of a 
temperament naturally opposed to wrong. Well, I helped him on his 
feet, found him work, and he was on the highway to become a useful, 
honest man. I come now to a digression essential to your understand- 
ing of what comes later. There is no vice or habit so hideous in all 

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this world, as the use of what we know as cocaine, ot coKe, to use 
the vulgar name. There are no criminals so low or vile as those who 
place this mind-wrecking alkaloid or poison in the ouuiic’s hands, 
marked as some innocent remedy — usually a so-called vuic for catarrh. 
I — will you remain quiet, sir, until I’m done?” Anhoic, with lighten- 
ing like rapidity, swung around as he uttered the unexpected words. 
Withers, who had started up with an exclamation of undisguised 
anger, settled back, his lips again compressed, and a deepening pallor 
on his face. 

“Well, this young man,” continued Anholt, “by the chance use 01 
the hellish stuff, became a cocaine fiend; became a victim to this soui- 
consuming drug, just as he was reaching the portals of success ana 01 
an honorable, respected life. No need to tell you how this loathsome 
habit works. Suffice to say that the man went to the dogs ; ambition 
was lost; all sense of honor gone; he became a sickly, dull eyec, 
chalky-faced, irresponsible brute. He craved but one thing in this 
life — cocaine. That he must have by fair means or by foul. His 
money was gone; therefore he would steal the stuff. He was discov- 
ered in the act. He escaped for the time being, but the officer who had 
caught him, was afterward found mortally wounded near the scene of the 
robbery. He believed the robber, Robert MacNamara by name, had 
shot him — accused him of it with his dying breath. The young fellow 
was arrested, protested his innocence and — convicted. I believed him 
guiltless — employed counsel to prove it. The organization to which 
this old gentleman here — Mr. Withers — belongs, might have helped — 
perhaps saved him. I tried to interest its members, but this man 
opposed it strenuously, and used his influence not to save, but to con- 
vict the accused man. I said he was convicted, but before the day of 
sentence he took matters into his own hands and committed suicide — 
hung himself in his cell, proclaiming with his last words his absolute 
innocence. One year ago a convict, dying in Sing Sing, confessed 
to the murder. He had robbed an apartment above the store which 
this young man had entered — was leaving, and supposed the officer was 
after him. I have some papers bearing on this young man’s birth and 

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life; also a little piece of jewelry — a locket, forwarded me by him on 
the day he took his life.” 

Anholt stepped back, advanced toward his trembling, aged foe, and 
lifting his hand, pointed it once again at the twitching, ashen face. 

“And now, you , Samuel Withers — implacable enemy of mine! You , 
who dares pass judgment on the weaknesses of your fellow men! You, 
who can see no good in any mortal save yourself. You, the spotless! 
You, the righteous! You , you damnable hypocrite — can you guess now 
what those papers sent me tell ?” 

Up went the bony arm, as if to ward some awful vision off. Back 
flew the head, as if to escape an impending blow. The eyes closed, 
opened, closed again. The dry, parched lips, opening as if to speak, 
gave utterance merely to some inarticuate sound. Dublediehl grunted 
as if the scene had brought him nothing but disgust. Littleton, moving 
as if he would protect his client, settled back at a glance from Anholt’s 
eyes. The audience, leaning forward — some standing — awaited breath- 
lessly the words to come. 

“Samuel Withers, your daughter became a common prostitute. Her 
child — your grandson, grew up a product of the East Side slums. 
You could have saved them both. She wrote in French — the French 
you taught her when she was still your pure, beloved little girl — a 
letter, sir, to you, and left it, together with a statement covering all 
her miserable life and wrongs, in the hands of a woman who had 
agreed to keep the child. That letter I shall hand you here tonight. She 
placed a locket — do you remember it? — with the picture of your wife 
inside, around her baby’s neck. That locket, too, I shall restore to 
you. Oh, wretched, miserable, most unhappy of all men ! You, whose 
daughter died a woman of the streets ! You, whose grandson died a 
suicide, a thief, a fiend addicted to the use of drugs — drugs which you, 
as manufacturer, placed upon the market; victim to the so-called 
remedy which has to you brought fortune, and to countless thousands 
whom your lying labels have deceived, woe, and misery, and crime! 
You, but for whom your daughter, virtuous still, might be gladdening 
your closing years ! You, but for whom your grandson now might be 

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an honored citizen! You , you self-sufficient, self-opinionated high 
priest of pharisaism ! What say yau to me now ? To me, the man 
you’ve hounded ; the only man who ever tried to lift your grandson to 
his feet ! You want the evidence ! Well, by God it’s here ! Here , do 
you understand? — before your eyes! Look! Do you recognize the 
writing — the locket? Do you see it? Ah! I though — you’re nervous 
man — here, let me open it ! See ! Look ! the face — the wo — . Ah, at 
last! I knew — I guessed! Tom — Doctor O’Grady — get him quick! 
Here Jake, hold him — steady! So — that’s it!” 

Each successive word of Anholt’s, as he drove the awful revelation 
home, had increased the agitation of the older man. What room was 
there for argument, for denial, or for doubt? Aye! in truth the 
evidence was there. The well remembered writing, the locket — golden, 
and now worn thin, that years — it seemed, indeed, almost ages ago, had 
nestled snugly on the fair throat of his Margaret — his Madge — she of 
the sunshine long since passed away. Yes, he would, he must assure 
himself — must examine it. But he — yes, Anholt was right. He was a — 
yes, a little — just a little nervous. Perhaps — well — the other had 
better open it. Any — yes, he heard him talking about — well — funny 
he couldn’t quite catch the drift — and that — that buzz — sort of — all 
kinds of strange, whirling — like the dark. Yes it was — coming — he 

would , and thus he passed from consciousness to dark; in one hand 

the letter from beyond the grave ; in the other, the locket now sanctified 
by memories placing it far beyond the power of any wealth to buy. 

Anholt, fearful lest some of the more excitable members of the 
audience might rush upon the stage, addressed them in a few reassur- 
ing words — words confirmed a moment later by Dr. O’Grady, who 
pronounced the stricken man entirely safe. Littleton, arising to pro- 
test against the “incredible assault” upon the reputation of his client, 
had been shoved unceremoniously back into his seat by Stahl, while 
Dublediehl, profiting by his observation of the incident, stuck firmly 
to his chair and closed his mouth. Just now his mental faculties were 
unusually alert. Besides there was that singular, undefinable, persist- 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


ent something advising him to make due preparations for a bit of 
trouble of his own. 

On the doctor’s suggestion, Anholt called for Davey and Ben Wildey 
to assist the gradually recovering Withers to the yard. “He needs 
fresh air at once,” Dr. O’Grady said, “and he’ll require some very care- 
ful watching for a day or two.” 

“That,” Anholt had replied, “is exactly what he’ll get. If you’ll 
help those boys get him safely to my house — the old four-seater is 
outside — and remain there until I arrive, I’ll be your friend for life. 
For the present, though, I’ve got a little further doings here.” 

“I wonder,” he added to himself, “where in thunder Bishop and 
that preacher have strayed off to again ! Well, anyhow, so far, so good, 
and now for the high cockalorum of all the mongrel curs — that is, if 
the crowd will stand for it!” 

What insensate kind of observation, this? One might as well 
imagine Storey quitting at the soup. 

* He 

“My friends, I will with your permission, pay my respects now to 
the second member of this philanthropic delegation ; of this unselfish, 
odoriferous pair, who evince an interest so abnormal in the welfare of 
yourselves. Pardon me a moment — Jake, do you mind sitting there at 
the right of Mr. Dublediehl, and you, Tom, at his left? Mr. Littleton 
can take another seat. You, Dublediehl, stay where you are, and keep 
that mouth of yours closed tight. Boys, if he moves before I’ve fin- 
ished, land him ! Afterward, if he wants to, let him talk !” Again Anholt 
addressed the audience : 

“My friends, at times nature, probably for diversity’s sake, places 
a freak in human form upon this earth. This deviation from the nor- 
mal type may be a purely physical one, or it may manifest itself in 
some remarkable eccentricity of the brain. In the latter case the 
unfortunate can be judged by no ordinary rule. The law of cause and 
effect refuses to hold good. Seek as you will, you can find no adequate 
motive for the things he does. Frequently they take the form of a 

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most intense and unreasonable hatred of his fellow men. Devoid 
himself of any impulse either unselfish or honorable, he measures 
humanity in general by the standard of his own depraved tastes, and 
finds his chief amusement in effecting the ruination of some one else — 
if that person be a friend, so much the greater joy. Friendship to him, 
is but a fancy, a delusion, a cloak behind which some ulterior motive 
lurks. He knows, because does he not judge everybody by himself? 
Well, my friends, I’m going now to tell you of a monstrosity such as 
this. It — or let me use the pronoun he — walked one day, some three 
years since, into an office of which I was in charge. He was hard up, 
hungry, wanted work. I gave it to him, paid his board bill, treated 
his as you would a long lost brother whom you loved. He was a 
native of Great Britain — born in the Isle of Man, and had knocked 
about the world for years. Discarded by his family, a pauper in 
friends, a failure in everything he ever tried, he was taken in by me 
and accepted as an equal, regardless of his having just recovered from 
a long debauch, despite my knowledge that he lied the first time that 
he ever spoke to me, in face of evidence as clear as daylight that he 
had been a thief. I say I helped him — and, I watched him. From that 
day down to this I’ve never heard him speak a good word of a single 
man, whether that person be alive or dead. I’ve never known him to 
pay an honest debt, unless he was compelled. I’ve never known him to 
possess a friend except myself, and he killed my friendship through 
his slanderous tongue. Well, he had a cousin with an axe to grind; 
who wanted to control a great industry here in these United States. 
The company itself was to a British one, floated over there, but the 
active management must be native to this soil. Between the two — 
the cousin and the man I tell about — they framed it up that I should 
manage the enterprise. The cousin was a broker. I was to be his tool, 
wherewith he would manipulate the stock market to his own advan- 
tage — to the shareholders’ and the company’s loss. I took the manage- 
ment, but — I didn’t play the tool. I did make the company a success. 
These two worthies that I’m speaking of, had made a handsome 
rakeofif from the deal — in floating the company, understand? But they 

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wanted more, and I stood in the way. Therefore they must discredit 
me. They raked my own past troubles up and held them as a threat 
before my eyes. Well, I resigned! Cowardly, perhaps — but I saw that 
neither one of them should profit by my act. The company — I spoke 
of it before — paid last year, as I told you, some eighty-four per cent, 
in dividends, and is flourishing. When I left it my last act was to 
knock the ingrate down. He’s hungered for revenge. That’s why he’s 
here tonight.” 

A cry, “It’s a bloomin’ lie !” A scuffle, ended as suddenly as it 
began, by prompt action on the part of Stahl and Faraway. A sub- 
dued muttering and hisses from the crowd. A toss of Anholt’s head, 
telling of contempt immeasurable, and then a resumption of the 
strange address. 

“Now suppose we hoist this gentleman on the self same petard that 
he’s used so long. We’ll begin the operation by a few short accusa- 
tions of our own. A few selections, as it were, since ’twould take too 
long to tell them all. Firstly, as an employee of Smith’s Bank of 
London, he robbed it of five hundred pounds and fled to Canada. 
Secondly, while in Vancouver he robbed the woman who had accom- 
panied him, of everything she owned, down to her silver comb and 
brush ; fleeing from that place to Australia. Thirdly, while in Sydney, 
he ruined the home of an Englishman who had befriended him, and 
then deserted the woman whom he had , led astray. Fourthly, as a 
private in the English army, serving in Hindustan, he was court- 
martialed for an unspeakable offense and afterward drummed out of 
camp. Fifthly, while in Chicago, he seduced the daughter of an 
honest working man, lodged her in a State street tenement, beat her 
to the point of death, robbed her according to his practice, and tried 
to throw the crime upon a reputable, unsuspecting man. Those are a 
few of the past accomplishments of this genteel appearing crook. 
I ■” 

With a bound the Englishman was on his feet; eyes bloodshot; face 
purple; the veins on his forehead standing out like powerful cords. 
His hand, slipping to his pistol pocket, was caught by Faraway in the 

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nick of time. Stahl, jumping to his friend’s assistance, snatched the 
weapon from the fingers closing upon it, and with incredible swiftness 
threw the would-be murderer to the floor. Littleton, who had rushed 
forward to the platform’s edge, waved his hand excitedly, and dis- 
regarding both the threatening glances and angry voices ordering him 
to stop, denounced Anholt as a character assassin of the blackest 
type ; a criminal ; a wild man ; demanded the aid of every honest citizen 
in the crowd, in confining him in irons, and promised to sue the town 
itself on behalf of his outraged clients for suffering this malefactor 
to speak at all. Dublediehl, who, meantime, had been permitted to 
arise, was shoved forcibly in his seat. Then, as Faraway watched him, 
Stahl, in compliance with a significant nod from Anholt, grabbed the 
excited attorney by the shoulders and pushed him firmly, and, let it 
be said, in a manner most undignified, to a less conspicuous place upon 
the stage. Anholt, who somehow seemed to enjoy the scene im- 
mensely, proceeded to finish his speech as if no disturbance had 
occurred. 

“Many of you, my friends, have heard or read of Professor Astrolo, 
the famous hynotist, who recently has been a most important witness 
in so many murder trials. Well, one day in company with — this fel- 
low here, I visited this well known man. I had a vague suspicion, mind 
you, that if the blackguard could, by some means, be thrown into a 
hypnotic state, one might find out some very curious things. Well, 
he proved a willing subject — and, he talked. Pardon me for a moment, 
if I digress again. One time this Dublediehl came back to England 
from New Zealand — in hard luck, of course. He always was, when 
he made a visit home. He urged an uncle, a well-to-do, ambitious 
chap, to return with him to the Colonies. This uncle, influenced not 
so much by the prospects of making money, as he was by the desire 
to be of assistance to his hitherto unfortunate nephew, agreed to go 
along, to provide the means wherewith to buy and stock a sheep ranch 
fin that far-off land, and to divide the profits half and half. On the voy- 
age the uncle mysteriously disappeared. He has never been heard 
from to this day. I knew of this and wanted to learn the reason why.” 

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The speaker paused. Slowly, so slow, indeed, that you could 
scarcely see it move, his head began to turn. A backward step — an- 
other — still another. He stood opposite — within three feet of Duble- 
diehl. His body veered, coming in direct alignment with the face. In 
the eyes — eyes fastened on a staring, livid, gasping countenance, a 
merciless glitter played — darted forward like blades of steel upon a 
cringing, guilty conscience. This time no arm was raised. The 
avenger stood there motionless; the cold, pitiless, accusing scrutiny 
searing the other’s faculties, even as the wrath of an Almighty God 
had left its imprint on the brow of Cain. 

Was Anholt speaking? No, certainly not! His lips had never 
moved. And yet, the words — surely — yes, there they were again — 
“You, Dublediehl, murdered him!” 

“Oh, Christ! Father! No, he doesn’t know! He is guessing — 
guessing, I say ! Liar! Liar! Where’s the proof, the proof? You — 
damn you — I’ll kill you — you liar — li 

And now, behold the lightning-like performance of this extra- 
ordinary man ; of this accuser who a short time since had been the 
one accused. Back to the- center of the stage. Off with the dead-black 
covering to the stand. And look! what means that graphophone thus 
exposed, and that awful challenge? Hark! listen to it reverberating 
through the room. 

“Deny it, you accursed dog! Deny it, you miserable, quaking thief! 
You seducer of pure womanhood! You, who dismantle happy homes! 
You* who assassinate the reputations of honest men! You, who strike 
defenseless women down! You liar! You drunkard! You fraud! 
You, you confessed murderer of your very kith and kin! I’ll make 
you, you viper, convict yourself! You, do you understand? — out of 
your own black, venomous mouth, shall bear full witness to your 
crimes! Listen, ingrate! do you hear that voice? You cur! You 
murderous crook ! Listen now to your confession — in your own voice 
— made by you in the shadows of Astrolo’s room ! Watch him, Jake- 
Torn ! Hold the scoundrel tight!” 

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A key was turned ; a cylinder started to revolve, and then, following a 
dull, rasping sound, a voice rang out — a voice magnified to an extent that 
enabled all to hear, by the costly, perfect instrument. 

“I, S. Landseer Dublediehl, declare this “Stop it, I say ! Oh ! 

I ■ ” 

“to be a true “Help ! Mr. Littleton ! Stop ! Let loose, I tell 

you ! I 

“confession of .” “In the name of God — Oh, Lord Jesus! Stop! 

Stop! Oh, God ! Father Almighty ! I — yes — I .” 

* * * * * 
“The confession, my friends, was also written out and signed by 
him, while under the hypnotic influence. It, too, is over in Joe Fisher’s 
safe, open to inspection by any one of you. I believe we ought to end 
this meeting now. Let us, I beg of you, have no demonstration of any 
kind. You understand why I called you here. Please,” as some one 
evidenced a desire to speak ; “please don’t decide on anything tonight. 
I will meet the nominating committee at Fisher’s store in the morning. 
The matter of a candidate to take my place can be handled then, since 
the polls don’t open until noon. Now boys,” addressing Stahl, Faraway, 
and half a dozen others who had crowded on the stage ; “we’ll try to 
rig up some plan to hold this fellow Dublediehl until we can connect 
with the proper authorities. About Littleton, here, I don’t know!” 
He glanced searchingly at the audience, which apparently indisposed 
to leave, kept gazing curiously at the group assembled on the platform. 
“I guess,” he said finally, “it’ll be safest if he has somebody along. 
Hi there! Si — Bud !”— calling to the Hawkins brothers just in front. 
“Will you boys see that Littleton has protection until his train pulls 
out? Thanks, fellows — out the side door there!” and “That’s all right, 
Littleton! We all make mistakes, but if you want to see daylight again, 
take my word for it and keep friendly with the shade tonight !” 


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CHAPTER X. 

Early the following evening, the Anholt household, with the exception 
of Marie and Davey, was gathered on the front porch of that very 
untypical farmer’s home — a porch, long, rambling, and built in the crudest 
kind of way, but which, liberally provided with hammocks, chairs and 
rugs, made up in solid comfort for what it lacked in style. Bishop, who 
had for some time been lost in listless musings — in reveries wherein allur- 
ing fancies played, turned suddenly to his friend, on whose knees Eleanor 
and Stanley were straddled, bouncing up and down like tenderfoots upon 
a bucking bronco’s back. 

“May it please Your Honor!” he remarked, “I’d like, exceedingly, to 
know just how you feel. I suppose now, we’re doomed to hear a long 
acceptance speech.” 

“My dear fellow, I’m feeling fine and dandy. About the speech, though, 
that’ll be short enough. As a matter of fact my throat’s sore yet from 
last night’s jamboree. I” — turning quickly to Dorothy — “was Mr. 
Wither’s calling then?” 

“I’m sure not, Van. He was sound asleep when I came out, and Dr. 
O’Grady said he didn’t think he’d wake up for a long time yet. Poor 
old man !”she added, “he’s suffered so much today, and he won’t let the 
locket out of his hand for a minute. Oh, I do so pity him !” 

“We all do, dearest! You know,” he continued, speaking to no one 
in particular, “it’s a blessed funny thing that I should feel relieved after 
causing him such misery! I suppose though, it’s a sample of the devil 
lurking in us all!” 

“No, Van,” corrected the little woman, “it isn’t that. It’s the feeling 
tiat always comes to people who deal honestly with themselves — and with 
tie world. And Mr. Withers — Oh ! he’ll be a thousand times better off, 
md a better man too, than he ever was before. Why, he said, only this 
ifternoon, that he’d give anything if he was sure he would live a few 
/ears more — just to help somebody to a Christian life!” 

From Storey, a low “Amen !” 


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“Well,” commented the husband, “it certainly does look as if the sky 
was clearing off. There’s young Coughlan — George Harry, Bishop ! I 
never will forget that night ; and I can’t get over your meeting him on 
that train. Talk about truth versus fiction — and coincidences! I call 
that the limit. Well, he writes he’s doing fine — sticking to his mother 
like a leech. How’s that ? And for the encore, along comes Polly Hen- 
derson — so the New York papers say — and promises to reform. That’s 
going some, eh?” 

“She wouldn’t,” said Bishop, sententiously, “if Essingham was Hive. 
She wouldn’t get the chance.” 

At Anholt’s mention of the woman, Dorothy had given a perceptible 
start. Where had she heard that name before? Ah, yes! she remem- 
bered now. She turned to Bishop : 

“Oh, Mr. Bishop! I don’t know how I’ve forgotten so long to asc you 
Who — what is Polly Henderson? Won’t you tell me, please?” 

The one she questioned looked imploringly at the minister. “I say, 
Storey, suppose you give her pedigree.” 

“My child !” — so the deep voice went — “Polly Henderson is — or was, 
a bad woman, whose operations were divided between shoplifting and 
picking other people’s pockets. Half of her earnings — or rather, pro- 
ceeds — went to Essingham. In return he stood as her protector, secured 
her exemption from prosecution, and once, when she was arrested in a 
suburban town, provided certain instruments enabling her to escade. 
It necessitated her 'seriously injuring a guard, but she managed to g*t 
away, and Essingham, luckily for himself, remained undetected — that is 
by all save Bishop, one other man and myself. I understand that she’s 
turned at last from her wayward life. May our forgiving Master heip 
and keep her henceforth in His way ! Friend Anholt” — abruptly chang- 
ing the subject, — “hast any notion where Miss Von Bonhorst is?” 

“I ‘hast’ not! Perhaps Dorothy — ” 

“Goodness knows!” was the quick rejoinder; “I don’t! She’s bedp 
awfully upset all day. I think because she was overcome at the meeting 
last night. I just don’t know what to make of it. She didn’t go to trn 
store today, and played nearly all morning with Nora, in her room.’ 

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“And baked this afternoon!” supplemented Anholt. 

“Yes, what do you think of that? She insisted on making a big lemon 
pie for Dick Murray, who is guarding Mr. Dublediehl. She says he 
likes them so, and is going to give it to him for his lunch tonight. Isn’t 
that funny?” 

“It’s most singular !” and with this reply the minister lapsed into 
silence ; a worried, anxious look hovering on the countenance ordinarily 
so serene. 

Shortly afterward, David Eastman, coming dowti the road from the 
direction of the Grote cottage, reached the gate, unlatched it, and hurried 
toward them. 

“Davey walks as if he had a case of fleas,” observed Anholt, on seeing 
him. 

“Probably invented another commandment,” suggested Bishop. “He 
always walks that way when he’s got something new to spout. If he 
doesn’t have wings within — ” 

“Mr. Bishop, I’m actually ashamed of you — and you too, Van !” and 
Dorothy looked reprovingly at the guilty pair. “I think Davey is just 
a splendid young man. He is, — ” but now the object of their comments 
was nearing the porch. 

“Do you know,” he volunteered, seating himself in front of his 
champion and leaning back against the post, “that Miss Von Bonhorst 
has gone and given Mother Grote — three — hundred — dollars ?” 

“What!” Four throats gave voice to the word in unison. Anholt 
leaned forward so unexpectedly that little Stanley, taking fright, tumbled 
from his father’s knee to the floor, raising a cry that for the moment 
effectually prevented either the fire of questions or Davey’s further words 
from being understood. Seeing this, the young man, after relieving his 
forehead of the perspiration which his rapid walking had induced, 
waited patiently for the disturbance to subside. Then, after the child, 
resorting to its mother’s lap, had quieted down to an occasional sob, he 
continued : 

“Indeed, she did ! I went over to cut some wood for the cook stove, 
and she had just gone, and Mother Grote had the money right there on 

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the table, and she’s going back to Germany to take care of her husband. 
She says that’s what Miss Von Bonhorst gave it to her for.” 

“Well,” ejaculated Anholt, “I’ll be teetotally dad pounded !” 

“That’s mild,” said Bishop. “Words don’t express it!” 

Storey who had jumped up and stepped off the porch, stood facing the 
bearer of the extraordinary news. 

“See here, Davey! Tell us exactly what the old woman said. Try 
to remember everything ” Even in the growing dusk one could observe 
a look of intense anxiety on the minister’s face. Then, before the young 
man had opportunity to reply, he added, “My friends, you’ll acquit me of 
pessimism, but 1 — ” 

“For goodness sake, dear fellow !” interrupted Anholt, “take it easy. 
Because Marie doesn’t happen to be around for supper, and because she’s 
taken a sudden liberal streak, is no sign that everything has gone to the 
demnition bow-bows. That’s her way of celebrating my emancipation. 
Go on Davey ; let’s have your recitation !” 

“Yes boy — go on, go on !” All noticed the minister’s uncertain, husky 
voice. 

“Indeed, there isn’t anything more to tell, only Mother said she asked 
her all about her home and husband again, and made her promise to go 
right back so she could have a little happiness before she died. That’s 
all she told me. Oh, yes ! she told me too, that Miss Von Bonhorst seemed 
kind of blue and talked as if maybe, she would have to go away herself. 
That’s everything she said. I’m sure of’t,” and he settled back once more 
against the post. 

“And that,” commented Storey, “is enough ! My friends, something 
has strangely affected Ma — Miss Von Bonhorst. Why should we delude 
ourselves? She has been, since her fainting spell last night, totally 
unlike herself. Mrs. Anholt” — looking at Dorothy, — “is it — do you be- 
lieve it possible that she’s mentally — temporarily troubled, considering 
everything that occurred today?” 

Dorothy, who could no more equivocate than utter a direct falsehood, 
answered him after a moment’s hesitation : 

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“I just don’t know what to think, Mr. Storey. Marie has acted awfully 
odd today, but then — I guess, considering last night, we all have! I do 
wonder though, where in the world she can be now !” 

Storey, without a word, his head bare and coat sleeves turned well 
back toward his elbows, started for the gate, passed out into the road, 
and became, as he headed for the town, lost in the deepening gloom. 

“He’s got me going now,” said Anholt, after the worried lover had 
disappeared, and drawing Eleanor, now asleep, gently to his breast. “It 
is funny, when you come to figure it right down about Marie. What 
with walking the floor all night, neglecting the store today, staying away 
from supper, and then handing over three hundred plunks to Mother 
Grote, I’m blessed if I don’t feel creepy myself ! Hello ! he’s coming 
back,” — the “he” referring to Storey, who had closed the gate with a bang, 
and was moving rapidly to them. “What ho! brother — you’re back 
quick.” 

The big man came forward without replying, stepped upon the porch, 
and settled himself again in his customary seat. 

“I am intensely relieved,” he proffered finally. “Miss Von Bonhorst 
has been to the store, and sent us word by young Sammy Trout — I met 
him down the road — that she intends making some calls tonight. I 
should judge from her message, she’ll probably be late in getting home. 
It’s very gratifying news — very !” a self-consolatory remark evoking 
neither approving nor disapproving comment. If the minister felt cheered 
by the information just imparted, well and good. As for the rest — well, 
it furnished additional food for thought, at least. 

Anholt and Dorothy carried the sleeping children to their room. Eater 
the man returned, joining his friends in a silent contemplation of the 
recent strange developments. He must, within the next half hour, start 
toward the town. The polls had closed at six o’clock. Ten minutes later 
the official count had been announced. At half past eight the jollification 
meeting, to be held in the space opposite Joe Fisher’s store, would have 
its start, and he, as chief beneficiary of his fellow townsmen’s votes, felt 
obliged, by all the rules that have to bear on political affairs, to hold 
himself in readiness to play a more or less conspicuous part. For the 

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A MAN WITHOU T PRINCIPLE? 

present though, the moments were his own — his to do with as he would. 
He chose to indulge in a retrospect of the occurrences of yesterday and 
today. 

As promised, he had called that morning at Fisher’s store, prepared 
to receive with a submissive spirit the reproaches and abuse which he 
fully expected would be meted out to him. Instead, he found his stock 
standing higher, immeasurably, than par, and discovered that so far as 
his enforced candidacy was concerned, he not only would be obliged to 
run for the mayorship, but that no other resident in all Red Hill, could 
be induced to stand against him. Thus his preconceived idea as to the 
result of his confession on the public mind was thoroughly dispelled. Thus 
was the folly which he had labored under for long years past disclosed 
in its true light. Thus had truth been vindicated. Thus had his fellow 
men been revealed as being charitable, reasonable, just, and not, as he 
had pictured them in delusions lasting for so long, as bigoted, unfair and 
relentless persecutors of the man who chanced to err. Thus he learned 
that it is not the truth revealed through frank confession that makes a 
mockery of life, but truth concealed and covered by evasion, silence and 
deceit. 

He had never yet been greeted with such cheery voices, such hearty 
hand-clasps, or such friendly faces. Never before had his head been held 
so high. Never had his gaze been so frank, or his mind so utterly at 
ease, as on this, the morning following his release. 

Yes, Bishop had been right. He would be Mayor of this Dakota 
town, and furthermore would serve the full term out. His plans — his 
friends’ plans, could wait another year. Because of what Red Hill had 
done for him; because of its display of confidence in his honesty and 
faith ; because in spite of all that he had been and done, they still com- 
manded, urged, entreated him to be their head and guide, he would 
answer to the call ; would give these loyal friends the benefit of his time, 
his labor, of whatever ability he possessed; would consecrate himself, 
so long as they desired, to furthering their interests and the town’s sub- 
stantial growth. Then, having done all this, might he not feel indeed, 
that Providence would aid him in the greater work; that this, in truth, 

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might prove to be a mere experimental school, wherein equipment would 
be found, essential to the consummation of the plans which Storey, Bishop 
and himself had formed? 

And now, his thoughts reverted to another, a more unpleasant situation 
to be faced. There was "Dublediehl, for whose safe confinement, tempo- 
rarily, some provision must be made. Scotland Yard had been communi- 
cated with. Likewise the British Government. Undoubtedly they would 
cable some advice, but until the time of its receipt, the man must be 
secured. Red Hill had no prison. Heretofore offenders had been taken 
to the county seat. With Dublediehl however, considering the circum- 
stances under which he was being held, such a procedure was obviously 
inadvisable. Besides, Beaver Junction was a mere side issue now, and 
no Red Hillian possessing a single gram of self-respect, would consent 
to risking the custody of a world-wide criminal such as this, to the doubt- 
ful security of their neighbor’s calaboose. Dick Murray, the one-legged 
constable of Red Hill, was the proud owner of a pair of manacles, and a 
ball and chain. These, after the meeting of the previous evening, had 
been securely fastened on the unexpected prisoner, who had then been 
ordered in no uncertain terms to hie himself to a corner of the church, 
where he was kept for the balance of the night, under the watchful eyes 
of Murray and Faraway. As a matter of fact, there was no more secure 
place of confinement in all Red Hill than this same church, erected by 
Storey but a few short months before. The doors, both at the main 
entrance and at the rear, were heavy, massive affairs of solid oak. The 
windows, placed ten feet above the floor, offered when closed, no encour- 
agement whatever for escape. A prisoner — especially one ironed as 
Dublediehl was, stood no more chance of escaping than do political 
offenders incarcerated in the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. True, he 
had abundant room for exercise, if the guard permitted, but exercise 
with manacled wrists and an iron ball tugging at one’s foot, is likely to 
be the Omega of a man’s desires, however athletically inclined he may 
ordinarily be. It cannot be said that Storey evidenced any bubbling enthu- 
siasm over this desecration of an edifice of which he was so inordinately 
proud, and, while bowing to the necessity justifying its use as a tempo- 

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rary jail, he announced in a voice chiefly noticeable for its vigor, that if, 
within forty-eight hours, the town had not provided a more appropriate 
hold-over for its prisoner he would turn him loose on his own recogni- 
zance. Whereat the leading citizens went into executive session and 
ordered a force of carpenters to build an addition to Faraway’s black- 
smith shop forthwith — at the town’s expense. This, they figured, would 
be finished by tomorrow evening. Meanwhile, Dick Murray and an 
assistant took up their posts outside the church and alternately dozed and 
watched. During the afternoon, Anholt, Storey and Bishop, while 
seated in the latter’s office, arrived at a definite understanding as to their 
future course. They would remain in Red Hill until Anholt had com- 
pleted his two years’ term of office. Each had his work to do. Each 
enjoyed it. Each felt that he was young enough to wait. “And anyhow,” 
said Anholt, summing the situation up; “at the present rate of Storey’s 
progress it’ll be that long before the Mendelssohn — 

“My friend,” the minister had retorted, picking up his hat ; “there were 
a lot of ‘Red Coats’ once, way back East in a little town called Trenton. 
They were listening for march music too. It didn’t come, but they woke 
up anyhow.” 

“Which means?” inquired Anholt. 

“That the Delaware, my friend, is still navigable by brave and cautious 
men.” 

***** ******* 

“Dearest!” — 'Anholt started from his dreams — “do you know it’s 
twenty minutes after eight?” 

“What! Jerusalem — no! Here, you fellows,” as he hastened indoors 
for his hat, “get busy ! This time I’ll let you all in on the ceremonies.” 

“Why, bright eyes!” he exclaimed a moment later, as he bestowed a 
parting kiss on Dorothy’s lips; “you look glum. I thought you’d be 
happy as a lark.” 

“Van dear!” — the soft arms encircled his neck — “It’s about Marie. 
I’m Oh! so dreadfully worried. You know dear, she had Nora with 
her nearly all the morning in her room, and she would come out at times 
and put her arms around me and cry — just awfully. And I remember 

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now, she said she wanted Mother Grote to be with her husband again, 
because she said it was so beautiful to see old people who were true to one 
another, end their days together. Dearie, don’t you think Mr. Storey 
ought to try and find her?” 

“If you insist, sweetheart. It looks to me though, as if you were all 
turning an ant hill into a mountain range. By the way — about that pie 
of Murray’s ! Since she isn’t here I suppose I’d better deliver it myself. 
Where is the blessed thing?” 

“She took it with her, dear, this afternoon. I — .” 

“Well, for the love of goodness! Poor Dick! I’d like to see what it 
resembles when he gets it. So long, dearest! Keep an eye on Mr. 
Withers. When he wakes it’ll make him feel good, probably, if you’ll 
talk to him,” and Red Hill’s first and unanimously elected Mayor, joined 
his waiting body guard. 


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CHAPTER XI. 

The time — midnight. The place — the interior of All Men’s Church. 
The darkness — relieved by rays of pale moonlight penetrating un- 
washed, high set window panes. A restless figure, tossing uncomfort- 
ably upon a narrow bench, endeavoring vainly to find forgetfulness in 
Morphean embrace. A rustling sound — over in the shadow where the 
organ stands. A noise — light — nearly inappreciable, as though made 
by a phantom lingering there. Muttered words — at times unintel- 
ligible, incoherent, issuing from the recumbent being’s lips. Hands — 
in the shadows the manacles are unobserved — raised to a fevered 
brow, then working nervously on back through dry, disheveled hair. 
Eyes — staring through the terrifying gloom ; opening, closing, in 
fruitless efforts to evade some ghastly sight — to escape the hideous, 
mocking pictures, intruding their presence everywhere — unappeasable 
memories — frightful visions, developed from the darkness all around. 

“Funny, this !” Now we understand the words. “Bloomin’ tough ! 
and no brandy — soda. Shaky? Well, rather! Strange, isn’t it, I can’t 
sleep? Humph! this worry’s all bally rot. They can’t prove — any- 
thing. I need sleep — that’s all — sleep !” His words gradually grow 
inaudible. He turns now, upon his side, the action accompanied by 
the dismal clank of an iron chain ; by the impact of a rounded mass of 
metal against the adjacent wall. No, that won’t do! It’s less com- 
fortable even, than lying on one’s back. He starts to turn again, but 
hold ! Whence that low, faint melody, soft as a zephyr carried to his 
ears, calling his troubled conscience to full wakefulness again? His 
head is raised ; he assumes a sitting posture ; his ironed hands acting as a 
half support. Pshaw! ’tis nothing — nothing but a mere hallucination 
encouraged by the midnight silence — by this memory provoking soli- 
tude. He will compel the attendance of nerve soothing, restful slum- 
ber. He is behaving — so he assures himself — like a foolish infant; 
like a child, frightened and conjuring dire misfortunes and appari- 

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tions from the dark. He lowers himself again, cautiously, until his 
head touches the inhospitable board. He trusts now to procure some 
rest, when — Oh ! most unbelievable, most fiendish — satanically devised 
of tortures ! Again the melody, the strains — increasing now in volume, 
of an old New Zealand love song; of a story set to music and hummed 
in the Antipodes by every courting swain, and here — now, usurping, 
trespassing on the reigning quietude. That voice — Oh ! what hellish, 
diabolical punishment is this? Whose ghostly fingers are those play- 
ing in the shadows on responsive, ivory keys? This is no dream, no 
fancy, no imaginary sound. To hell with the manacles! To hell with 
the cumbersome, restraining ball of iron! He will find out! This is no 
delirium, no insanity, no appalling, spectral dream. No ! No ! No ! 
a thousand times. The voice — the song — the breathing instrument. 
He will see — discover — know what necromant is working this accurs- 
ed trick. He bends over, takes the spherical, weighty impediment in 
his hands, and walk unsteadily, haltingly along the aisle. He nears 
the organ. The notes drop — become sweeter. The softly uttered 
words recall, aye, even here, the fragrance of those distant hills. They 
bring also to mind — Oh ! God forbid that our pen now should venture 
to portray the damning, awful recollections tearing at this prisoner’s 
heart. And now, look, the silvery satellite — faithful guardian of the 
night, reappears from behind a transient cloud. Her rays, brilliant as 
a calcium light upon the stage, move diagonally across the room. 
One especially — note how bright it is — envelopes the organ, darts 
across its top, disclosing — Oh, miracle of all great miracles ! — the pale 
inexpressibly saddened countenance of the musician of this midnight 
hour. 

Bang! Crash! The iron weight drops from nerveless hands — * 
hands that momentarily cover a face wherein is pictured abject fear — 
endeavoring to exclude a vision presaging some direutl retributory 
act. Now the voice — half in entreaty, half in terror, is heard. A single 
word is uttered — a woman’s name : 


"Marie !” 


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The music ceases. The slender fingers remain motionless upon the 
keyboard. The dark eyes— lustrous — strangely, unnaturally bright, 
pierce to the innermost recesses of the craven wretch’s brain. The 
reply comes, in tones calm and emotionless, like the night itself. 

■“Yes, Lawrence, it’s Marie.” 

The cringing poltroon stands transfixed — staring — speechless. The 
woman arises, faces him, waits patiently for him to speak. He cannot. 
Her lips at last open. She speaks again : 

“Lawrence, there is a little girl. You — are the father.” 

No reply. The coward has lost all mastery of his tongue. He steps 
backward — once — twice — out of the ray of light. The woman, dark- 
robed, advances — follows him. Once more the passionless voice : 

“Your wife, Lawrence, they say, is dead. You will keep your 
promise now, and marry me — for our baby’s sake — you will do that, 
won’t you?” 

“Humph!” Partial control of his faculties is regained. This is no 
supernatural event. The woman is of flesh and blood. He ought to 
know — ought he not? 

“Jolly chance, haven’t I,” he mutters, finally, “to marry anybody 
here? Nice looking bridegroom, too, I’d be, in irons! How is it? — 
tell me, woman ; how did you — Marie, for God’s sake ! tell me — how 
did you get here?” 

“Lawrence, you will marry me — here — tonight. I will send for a 
minister — a friend of mine. It’s our child, you know, I’m thinking of.” 

Now see ! the man moves forward. The sensual face is again 
revealed as the moonbeam falls upon it. Was that a flash of hope, or a 
subtle gleam telling of trickery, discernible for an instant only in the eyes ? 

“And if I do, Marie — you’ll help me — have these damned chains and 
handcuffs taken off? That’s the understanding, eh?” 

“Lawrence” — marvelous how evenly the words come forth — “is the 
legitimacy of our little girl to be purchased only by another wrong? 
Isn’t it enough, that I, in marrying you, renounce my friends — my 
prospects; that I advertise my sin to all the world? You — you whom 
I knew, and loved, and trusted under the name you gave me then — the 

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name of Lawrence Deal — can’t you — is it impossible for you to do one 
just — one honorable deed? Won’t you make some small atonement 
for the misery you brought to me, by doing as I ask? You will — won’t 
you, help me to reclaim our child from bastardism? Lawrence, you 
will do this for the little one, won’t you ?” 

Thus she in turn becomes the pleading one. He believes the advan- 
tage rests with him. He plucks up courage — nears her. 

“How do you think I can marry you this way? But I will, upon 
my word and honor, go through the farce if you’ll agree to help me 
out of this. That’s fair, isn’t it?” 

“Lawrence, if I can help it, you never will be free. But you must — 
you must marry me tonight. Yes, I know, they’ll call me crazy, and 

sneer at me — at a woman low enough to wed a mur . Lawrence, I 

shall send now, for my friend, the minister. You will agree to this, 
won’t you, Lawrence? You know it means everything to our little 
one !” 

Now his real character, in its full and ugly viciousness, asserts itself. 
The iron bound wrists are raised as if to strike the woman down. No, 
he can torture her more effectually by words. “Humph ! me marry 
you — a common harlot ! Do you suppose I haven’t got another wife- 
yes, and children, too? Not a flock of bastards, but they’re clean, they 
are. And my wife’s a woman. She’s no filthy prostitute. Why don’t 
you hunt up the real father of your kid ? That fellow Anholt — like as 
not it’s .” 

“Stop, you coward !” Oh ! that pen could describe the passionate 
force and intensity of the cry, or the black eyes flashing like electric 
sparks, or the attitude, like unto a wild beast ready for the spring. 
“You white-livered, venal wretch ! You robber of my chastity — des- 
troyer of my honor! You dirty, lying cur! Look now on me — on me 
whose ruin you accomplished by your plausible, specious, sugar- 
coated words ! Me, your affianced bride, mother of the child that you 
renounce — the child whose eyes and features give proof of your pater- 
nity. Look! look, I say! Gloat if you will over this mockery of 
womanhood, this moral wreck, this human thing you’ve made ! Look ! 

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and pray — pray you devil — monster, for your soul’s salvation ! for I — 
I, Marie Von Bonhorst, here — tonight, shall mete out vengeance for 
my wrongs ! Pray ! I tell you — dastard — pray ! for here — now, you dog, 
you villian — here — now, I say, by heaven, you shall die!” 

No tigress pouncing on her unsuspecting prey; no thunderbolt des- 
cending from a cloudless sky, ever crushed its victim under impact 
more terrific than is this. Quick as the lightning’s flash a blade of 
cruel, remorseless metal glitters in the moonlight — shoots downward, 
forward, penetrating to the seat of life. A thud — a moan — a twitching 
movement of the body, unobservable in the dark. Thus does the blood 
of generations past ; of an ancestry indigenous to southern climes ; of a 
chivalry where death alone was held the price of woman’s wrongs, 
reassert and prove itself. 

But observe, the woman is bending — stooping over the silent, mo- 
tionless corpse. Now she tugs, pulls on the imbedded piece of steel. 
It gives, loosens, is withdrawn. She is back now, standing in the 
shimmering light — examining the dripping, bloody thing. She laughs 
— or no, that weird, demonical, heartless sound — that is not laughter. 
What evidence of merriment is there in the voice? ’Tis an echo, doubt- 
less, of Hadean greetings to the long expected, welcome guest. But 
the woman — Marie — she is talking; loudly, rapidly; caring little 
whether she is heard or not : 

“The journey — surely ’tis a tempting one! So easily, so quickly 
made! Oh! Nora, Melville, Dorothy, Van — live, enjoy your sweet, 
deserved happiness. Beloved friends — and Oh, Nora! my dimpled 

darling; my — oh! my . Stop! Stop! — these thoughts would make 

you faint. Quick ! before your courage melts away !” 

See ! the left hand is moving — flying to the throat. Rip — the fasten- 
ings to the waist are sundered ; then, the corset cover — torn likewise 
apart. The corset itself — here both hands, one grasping the crimson 
knife, pull nervously, fiercely at the clasps. It, too, is opened. The 
left hand clutches that side which overlaps the heart; pulls it back, back 

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— still further back. The right hand is poised aloft. The voice, 
“Courage! Courage! Strike hard — swift!” and down for the second 
time with unerring, deadly aim, flashes the gleaming instrument of 
death. 

Two bodies — saint and sinner but a moment since — are lying there, 
in the obscurity of this temporary tomb. Dead? Yes — or hark! One 
— the woman, is moving, speaking. Can you see her? — there, that dim 
shadow, almost imperceivable. She has raised herself — up — up — is 
resting on her elbow. Be quiet, will you ! she’s talking — muttering to 
herself : 

“They may — Oh! Van, if they should — if you should be accused — if 
— if they thought that you — did this ! Oh ! if I could — if pen — how can 

I — save .” She stops, turns her eyes toward the platform as if 

inspired, and looks — stares at the pure white wall behind ; where the 
moonlight from the nearest window falls upon it. She lowers herself 
again to the floor — moves — begins to crawl slowly, oh ! so slowly, toward 
the steps. Now., at last, she reaches them — if it was lighter you could see 
a trail of blood behind. Watch her ! She is — yes, she will succeed in pull- 
ing her body up. How she suffers ! See, the blade is still imbedded in her 
breast ! She is on the stage — stretched there, motionless. Too late ! or no, 
her arm is extended just ahead. She is advancing again, almost imper- 
ceptibly, over, closer to that square light playing on the wall. Nearer, 
nearer, no — yes, she will — she has — she is there before it. , 

Notice with what effort, with what incredible torture she manages 
to raise herself, her marble countenance facing the spot covered by 
the pale moonbeam. Her left hand supports her. Her right — watch it. It 
withdraws the knife. Now her finger is rubbed here and there upon her 
breast. Now she raises it — see ! it is dripping with her blood. She begins 
to write in crimson letters on the wall ; in letters unsteady, ill proportioned, 
but decipherable. Again the finger hunts the wound. Two more words 
are added. A third time she repeats the act, and then strength fails. 
The arm drops, then the head, then — a convulsive movement of the 
body. In sinking it turns — the head and torso resting against the 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


white background — the ghastly, glassy eyes staring hideously out, 
into the impenetrable gloom. Above the black, luxuriant locks, this 
proof of her friend’s innocence; this message recorded with her life blood 
as it ebbed away : 

***** 
Ten minutes later, Dick Murray, who had, immediately after eating 
a delicious lemon pie, presented him by Miss Von Bonhorst, sunk into 
a most unaccountable doze, peeped into the church. In another hour 
all Red Hill was up and doing. The body of Marie was taken imme- 
diately to Anholt’s home, That of Dublediehl was left where it was 
found. When morning came it had disappeared; none knew how, nor 
why, nor when. There were perhaps a dozen wiseacres who held that 
certain citizens well known to all, could easily, if so disposed, solve the 
mystery. Others, whose orthodoxy held them inalienably to a doctrine 
emphasizing the existence of a material Hell and Devil, contended that 
Satan had disregarded conventionalities and personally called and car- 
ried off his own. Still others, scientifically inclined, argued that the 
whole solution might be found in this : Here was a body, housing for 
years, a corrupt and rotten mind; a mind so polluted that the flesh 
itself had become contaminated through proximity to it. Death came ; 
decay and decomposition took a hand; the body was ripe for dissolu- 
tion, and thus a few short hours, instead of months, sufficed to resolve 
it into its original elements. 


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CHAPTER XII. 

’Tis eventide at Lovers’ Roost. Pinkish tints suffuse the vaulted 
heavens; tints soft and restful, hovering like warm blushes on the 
cheeks of modesty. The air is redolent of fragrant, sweet perfume; 
with the scent of lilacs wafted on light zephyrs, capricious as the mind 
of Eve. Twilight falls, and the earth, and trees, and shrubs, are mantled 
by the mystic, tranquilizing haze. And we, who wander thoughtlessly 
atop the curving ridge ; we, whose footsteps long have traveled in the 
ways of peace; we, whose placid lives, like azure, soft, Italian skies, 
have never known a cloud; we, who live within ourselves, and doze 
serenely while the world moves on; we — even we, now pause and 
wonder — wonder at the weird, fantastic movements of the figures 
gathered underneath yon maple tree. And we, who loitering uninvited, 
watch and marvel at the curious sight, start back astonished, now that 
vision penetrates the dusk, and lays the sacred mystery bare. We call 
it sacred — aye ! because our eyes rest now upon a flower strewn mound, 
and bared heads too, are visible — three of them, on manly shoulders, 
lowered reverentially toward the ground. Observe — one figure, mas- 
sive, tall, drops down upon his knees — remains there, motionless, for a 
time. He rises — a prayer undoubtedly was made. They turn — the three 
— are moving slowly, silently, toward the ridge — over to the sheltered 
sea t — the nook, where but one year ago today the man of God proclaimed 
his love. And he — speaks now, softly, as if unto himself. But this 
time the woman hears him not. His friends catch now and then, and 
understand the low toned words. They give neither answer nor rebuke. 
He too, in time will be like them, and they are blessed with that enduring 
peace which passeth the understanding of all men. They, have found 
deep sorrow but a prelude to content. They, have reached the harbor 
where calm, unruffled waters run ; where the perils of life’s wild, tumul- 

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tuous sea are mercifully unknown. Their wounds are healed; their 
memories at rest ; their anxiety dispelled. But now, their friend is speak- 
ing — this time unquestionably to them. 

“Anholt — Bishop! My friends, my comrades!” We, hidden in the 
shadows, manage with difficulty to understand the words. “One year 
ago, on an evening such as this my — Marie and I sat here. It was then 
two days — only, before her death. She expressed a longing — a wish, 
that she might forever rest — over yonder — there, where we placed her. 
My friends, that is my wish too ; to lie beside her, near her, — ready when 
the great awakening comes, to claim possession of my queen — my prin- 
cess — my bride to be, through the eternal centuries.” 

We, who linger in the gathering shades. We, who listen to this 
strange request, hear neither promise nor response. Instead, we note 
three pairs of eyes — three faces, mute and solemn, turned instinc- 
tively toward the west. And we, who stand here, fearful lest our presence 
be betrayed, imagine — seek to read the silent trio’s minds; strive to 
picture to ourselves the visions of things that were, and are, and those 
which hope declares will be, discernible to them alone. But we can only 
guess — can but divine the panorama open to their ken. 

And now, one of them speaks. May not his words, uttered as they 
leave the place, help us to a fuller appreciation of their peculiar acts and 
moods ? We hear the voice, distinctly, as they move away : 

“Fellows ! when all is said and done ; when I compare the various 
dogmas, creeds and religions of the world ; when I consider, Storey, your 
interpretation of the Master’s words; when I recall the lessons taught 
me at my mother’s knee; when I think of the unselfish counsel of my 
beloved wife; when I measure the martyrdom of a noble spirit like Marie; 
when I see men rise and fall, and suffer and enjoy; when I review the 
past year — the first of genuine freedom since my boyhood days — the only 
year in which existence seemed really worth the while; when I think of 
all these things, with the strength and beauty of the truths they emphasize, 
I feel like falling on my knees and thanking God for making Stanley Hope 

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A MAN WITHOUT PRINCIPLE? 


my friend. Stanley Hope, who revealed to me their true significance in 
my hour of gravest doubt ! Stanley Hope — ever loyal, ever generous, ever 
uplifting those to whom life seems a dreary, hopeless thing! Stanley 
Hope, the man of Christ, the friend of friends, the one who, in a single 
sentence of three words — 'Honesty without qualification' — frames a recipe, 
which, if used, would insure the happiness of mankind!" 


THE END. 


[ 345 ] 


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